


Lost Souls

by Raina_at



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M, Mild Period-Typical Homophobia, Narnia fusion-sort of, Teenage boys having sex with other teenage boys, World War II, mild sexual identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23891557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raina_at/pseuds/Raina_at
Summary: It's 1941, and twelve-year old John Watson is evacuated to Devonshire. There, he meets Sherlock Holmes, and together they stumble into another world.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes elements from Narnia (no talking animals, though), the one episode of Carnival Row I've watched and a bit of Outlander thrown in.
> 
> It's not as high concept as it sounds :-)
> 
> Thank you, @notjustmom for the beta, you're a star.  
> Also, this isn't really Brit-picked, so if you notice anything glaringly jarring, please tell me.
> 
> Also, I'm raina-at at Tumblr, so, you know, drop by :-) 
> 
> Title from Lorreena McKennitt's song of the same name. Have you ever heard a song that's just exactly what you feel like when you write a specific story? That's the song I wrote this story to, basically.

When John Watson is twelve years old, he stumbles into another world. He also meets Sherlock Holmes.

In hindsight it isn't surprising that the two incidents are closely related.

*-*

This is how it starts. With fire and sirens, blood and tears, fear and the stench of burning buildings and charred flesh.

It’s the last glimpse of normalcy going up in smoke.

In a way, it’s a relief. Ever since that bloody telegram his mother and Harry tried so hard to keep calm and carry on, as they say. Now, at least, in a burning city and with everything they own crumbled to ashes, they have to acknowledge that the world is ending.

Three days after the bombing, John’s mother puts him on a train, kisses him goodbye, and sends him off to the country. He knows she’s relieved that he’s gone, not only because he’ll be safer away from London, but also because he’s begun to notice that she’s been spending less and less time with her children and more and more time with Mr. Henry, the lodger they had to take in after his father died. His sister is long gone, she went out as a land girl the moment she had the chance. John knows that with him gone, too, his mother won’t have to pretend that the new flat won’t be one where Mr. Henry pays the rent. And it isn’t that he begrudges his mother her happiness, it’s that he feels like baggage from an old life she’d like to leave behind, with his inconvenient grief and his ever-increasing awareness of the many ways she’s let him down. 

The train is full of children like him, with handed-down, faded, ill-fitting clothes, clutching their few meagre possessions to themselves, trying not to show how scared they are.

John isn’t scared. He’s gone beyond that point. He’s just numb, and tired, and relieved he doesn’t have to pretend that anything’s fine anymore.

*-*

Devonshire is beautiful this time of year. It’s late June and the days are endless. The breeze from the ocean is warm and smells of freedom. 

A taciturn groom picks John and the three other boys up from the Torquay train station and they drive for about half an hour through the falling dusk. Nobody talks much, they’re all tired and a bit apprehensive. 

When they finally turn off the road, they behold their new home for the foreseeable future. Musgrave Manor is a large, ancient-looking mansion near the sea, with grounds that still hint at their former glory as a landscaped park, but which time has turned from formal elegance to enchanted forest. 

The boys are welcomed by a motherly matron who introduces herself as Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper. An elderly gentleman waits for them in the grand entrance hall. John tries hard not to stare, but it’s by far the grandest place he’s ever seen. 

“Welcome to Musgrave Manor, boys,” the gentleman says to them, shaking each of their hands in turn. “I’m Charles Musgrave.”

When he’s greeted them all individually, he gestures for them to gather around. “We have some rules here, boys. First, I understand that boys will be boys, but I accept no fighting here. Second, you will receive three hearty, wholesome meals a day, and I ask you to respect that the cook is under strict orders not to serve any food in-between. Third, you may go anywhere within this house and within the grounds, but do not leave without asking permission. I am responsible for your safety while you are here, and I take this responsibility very seriously. I ask you to do the same.”

They all nod, and with a kindly smile, Mr. Musgrove sends them off to the dining hall, a large, elegant room with a crystal chandelier that looks decidedly odd paired with several plain wooden tables and chairs that serve as the boys’ dining and school tables. 

A large, friendly boy named Mike is tasked with showing them around by Mrs. Higgins.

“Grub’s decent, much better than they had at my school,” he says, while helping himself to a large bowl of soup and a slice of bread.

“How many children are quartered here?” John asks, looking around the dining hall.

“About fifty,” Mike says around a mouthful of bread. “All boys, old Musgrave only takes boys. He’s even hired a tutor for us, but he’s on holiday right now, so classes are suspended. Thank God. He’s a good soul, old Dimmock, but he’s such a bore.”

That moment, the door opens and a slender, tall boy sweeps in, dressed incongruously in well-fitting, comfortable looking trousers and a well-fitting shirt, and a dark grey wool coat that seems far too big for him. He’s walking by them without looking at any of them, nose buried in a book. 

“Oi, Holmes, new boys just arrived.”

The boy addressed as Holmes merely grunts, sits down at an empty table and starts eating mechanically, never taking his eyes off his book.

Mike jerks a thumb at him. “That’s Holmes. Good lad, but mad as a hatter.”

“Why is he wearing that coat indoors?” one of the other boys asks, incredulous. “It's June.”

Mike gestures at his head. “Like I said. Mad.”

John thinks of the large, ancient jumper in his suitcase, the one that belonged to his dad and hangs almost down to his knees, and doesn’t say anything.

He finishes his meal and is relieved when Mike shows them to their rooms. To John's surprise they actually have their own bedrooms. There are about fifty bedrooms in the house, and the boys don’t occupy the servants’ quarters, they’re housed in the guest bedrooms, which all have huge four-poster beds, heavy, ancient furniture, their own fireplaces and, of course, thick blackout curtains. His room has a maroon colour scheme, and it’s cosy, though somewhat intimidating. 

He feels slightly ridiculous as he unpacks his ancient suitcase and his hand-me-down clothes and puts them into the beautiful, antique wardrobe. He pulls on his pyjamas and his father’s old jumper. It’s ridiculous, and he’s far too old for it, but it comforts him, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t have to feel guilty about acknowledging that he misses his dad. He also fastens the chain with his dad’s pocket watch around his neck. It’s uncomfortable, but this way he won’t leave it behind in case he needs to get out of the house quickly if there’s an air raid. He’s learned the hard way that things you don’t carry with you have a tendency to go up in smoke.

Wrapped in his dad’s jumper, he settles into bed. He should feel lonely and abandoned and adrift, but in actual fact he feels relieved and free.

*-*

Fire and sirens. The smell of burnt flesh. Fear, metallic taste in his mouth. 

He wakes up shaking, disoriented and alone. He gets out of bed and slowly, with faltering steps makes his way towards the bathroom. His room is near the back stairs that lead down to the kitchen and up to the servants’ quarters.It’s the middle of the night, but he can see the light from the kitchen illuminating the stairs with a faint glow.John’s hungry, and thirsty, but most of all, he’s alone and doesn’t want to be, so he makes his way down the stairs.He’s unsurprised to find the kitchen occupied. He is, however, very much surprised at what he sees.

The boy from supper, Holmes or whatever his name was, is bent over the kitchen table that holds something furred, bloody and quite dead. He’s holding a scalpel and a pair of tweezers.

The thing is, John has always been more curious than is entirely good for him, so instead of just backing away and going back to bed, he takes a step forward, and asks, “What are you doing?”

Holmes visibly starts and turns around, but his momentary nervousness is replaced by annoyance when he realises John isn’t an authority figure. He sighs and rolls his eyes. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he snaps. His voice is just starting to change, wobbling all over the place, but his diction is sharp and precise and very obviously public school trained. 

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re not baking scones,” John replies, calmly. “And I surely hope you’re not making tomorrow’s dinner.”

He’s surprised when the other boy’s lips twitch ever so slightly, like he’s trying not to smile. “I’m dissecting this rabbit,” he says, gesturing at the cadaver. “Now, if you don’t mind,” he adds, turning back around to continue his work.

John takes another step closer and looks over Holmes’ shoulder. “Why are you dissecting this rabbit?”

Holmes looks up at John, irritated again. “I didn’t kill it, if that’s what you’re getting at!”

“I wasn’t, actually, “John says, staring at Holmes in horrified confusion. “I sort of am now.”

That twitch of the lips again. “No need to be worried, I assure you. It was already quite dead when I found it.”

Reassured, John takes another step closer and examines the rabbit. There are no bite marks or visible injuries. “What did it die of?” he asks.

Holmes looks at John for a long time in silence, and John has the uncomfortable feeling that he’s being studied, his character being measured and weighed. Then Holmes nods at the other side of the table and says, “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

John sits down where Holmes indicated and checks the time on his dad’s watch. “It’s three in the morning, why are you doing this now?”

“Only time I can get some peace,” Holmes mutters, attention already mostly back on the cadaver. He gestures at John with the scalpel. “Usually at least.”

John smiles a little. “John Watson, by the way.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Holmes - Sherlock - says absently.

John nods, mostly to himself because Sherlock isn’t paying any attention to him any more.

It’s freezing in the kitchen. “You think it would be all right if I made some tea?” John asks.

“I’m sure Mrs. Higgins won’t mind,” Sherlock says, adding, “Just milk, no sugar.”

“Doubt there’s sugar around anyway,” John mutters, then gets up and proceeds to make tea for both of them. 

He puts a steaming mug next to Sherlock’s elbow and sits back down. For a few minutes, he just enjoys warming his hands on his own mug, slowly sipping the hot beverage. It’s oddly comforting, sitting here like this. Sherlock ignores him, but John is content just watching as he slowly and carefully dissects the rabbit, checking every organ he removes for damage. It's interesting, a bit like being back at school in Biology. 

Something occurs to John. “You haven’t asked me what I’m doing here at three in the morning.”

Sherlock doesn’t even look up from his perusal of the rabbit’s lungs. “Obvious,” he says, absently, then mutters, “Rat poison maybe?”

“What’s obvious?” John asks, a bit bewildered.

Sherlock looks up from the rabbit, and his oddly pale eyes pin John in place as effectively as if he were a bug in a display case. “Nightmare. You’re alone, in a new place, you were recently bombed.” He adds, a little more quietly, “And my condolences for your father’s death.”

John swallows, stunned. For a moment he doesn’t know what to say. Then he croaks out, quietly, his voice not entirely steady, “How did you know?”

“The watch you wear on a chain around your neck is highly unsuitable for a twelve-year-old, and the way you unconsciously fiddle with it means it hasn’t been there for very long, you aren’t used to it being there. It’s an obvious heirloom, the kind of thing often passed from father to son. Your jumper, also too large for you, has got the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers regimental badge on it. There’s a war on. Obvious,” Sherlock enumerates, pointing at the watch and the badge in turn.

“You said I was recently bombed,” John says, feeling a little bit like he’s been hit by a freight train.

“Your pyjamas and your slippers don’t quite fit, likely hand-me-downs from some charity or other, you’ve been evacuated, and you’re sitting here in a strange kitchen a three in the morning watching me dissect a rabbit rather than going back to bed,” Sherlock says, lips quirking into an odd little half-smile at the end.

John’s almost tempted to smile back. “What else?” he asks.

Sherlock gazes thoughtfully at John, rabbit momentarily forgotten, and John feels an odd rush of adrenaline at all this razor-sharp attention directed at him. “It’s obvious from your clothes that your family doesn’t have much money, and you’re from North London, but I can barely hear it when you speak, so I’m assuming either you spent your first years at school at a boarding school and your mother brought you home when money got tight after your father passed, or you’re in one of London’s better public schools on a scholarship. Based on your academic interest in the rabbit and the fact that you play rugby I’d say the latter. Do you want me to tell you how I can tell you play rugby?”

Stunned, John shakes his head. “I think that’s quite enough.” He swallows.

For a moment, the silence in the kitchen is very loud, ringing with the reverberations of Sherlock’s torrent of words. Sherlock bites his lip and looks down at the rabbit, apparently suddenly self-conscious.

“That…” John finally says, “was amazing.”

Sherlock looks stunned when he gazes up at John. “You really think so?”

“Of course. I’ve never met anyone who could remotely do that,” John says, awed. “How did you do it?”

“Most people only see, I observe,” Sherlock simply says and returns his attention to the rabbit.

John has no idea what that means but he’s too tired to find out. So he settles in his seat and watches Sherlock Holmes remove rabbit entrails until he falls asleep.

*-*

It’s six in the morning when the housekeeper shakes him awake where he fell asleep in the kitchen chair. He’s frozen stiff and has a crick in his neck. 

Sherlock is gone, the kitchen table is spotless, and the cook is making a fire in the Aga to cook a large portion of porridge for the children.

The housekeeper puts a mug of tea in front of him and ruffles a hand over his hair. “Poor dear, must be difficult, being away from home for the first time. Go get dressed now, then you can have breakfast.”

John smiles at her in gratitude, then goes to do just that.

*-*

When he enters the dining hall, Sherlock is already there, eating and reading an enormous book.

“Oi! Watson! Over here!” A few other boys have gathered around Mike and are waving him over. They look nice, friendly. Sherlock, on the other hand, doesn’t even look up. 

John waves to the other boys and sits down opposite Sherlock, helping himself to a large portion of porridge. 

Sherlock is staring at him wordlessly. 

“Good morning?” John offers, suddenly unsure. “Is it alright if I sit here? I can leave again if you prefer.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Sherlock answers, quickly making room for John to put down his bowl. 

“So did you find out what killed the rabbit?” John asks as he starts to eat his porridge.

“Heart attack, unfortunately,” Sherlock says, returning his attention to his book. “Boring.”

John eats his porridge and looks out of the window. It’s a lovely, sunny, warm day, and he can’t wait to go outside. “What’s there to do here?”

“Well, let’s see,” Sherlock says, looking up from his book. “As far as I know, some of that lot over there,” he gestures at Mike and his table, “spend their days either running after a ball, hitting a ball with a stick or throwing a ball while slamming into each other. Then there’s the library, which is extensive but understocked on scientific works. Fortunately, my brother always sends me the latest.” He holds up the book he’s been reading, which seems to be a collection of sorts about something called quantum mechanics. “I plan to spend my morning reading it.”

John finishes his porridge. “Well, see you at lunch, then. I’m going to throw around a ball while slamming into people for a bit.” He grins at Sherlock and jogs after Mike, who’s just leaving the hall with the other boys.

Mike greets him with a good-natured pat on the back. “You’re the first person here who’s managed to talk to him for more than five minutes without punching him in the face. How did you manage?”

John shrugs, looking back at Sherlock, who’s leaving the hall through another door that John supposes leads into the library. “It wasn’t that hard. He’s… interesting.”

“Thinks he’s better than the rest of us, he does,” another boy called Anderson inserts. “Posh wanker. Don’t even know what he does here, his parents supposedly own half of Sussex. No idea why he isn’t at home.”

“Probably his parents can’t stand him either,” another boy throws in and there’s a bit of nasty snickering in the crowd.

“He’s not that bad, honestly,” John says, annoyed. 

Mike gestures them out of the door to end the discussion. “If you say so. Now, to the important bit: rugby or football?”

*-*

At lunch - cheese sandwiches - John doesn’t see Sherlock, so he goes into the library, a large, rather stuffy room, with shelves somewhat untidily stacked with books, some of them obvious schoolbooks, other volumes more ancient and leather bound in locked glass cases.

Sherlock isn’t here, so John considers his options.

He could rejoin the others, who at this moment are running out of the front door again with the ostensible purpose to watch the road to the next village for cars, or the skies for planes (there’s an RAF airfield not far away) but he’s tired from not having slept much, he doesn’t care over much for cars, and he’s had enough of planes for a lifetime.

He picks out a Dorothy Sayers he hasn’t read before, and settles into a comfortable chair to read. 

He falls asleep after the first chapter, and only wakes with the dinner bell. 

Sherlock is sitting on the sofa opposite, reading the book John fell asleep holding. He looks up and smiles. “Oh, good. Finally.” He tosses the book aside. “Boring. The killer's clearly the gardener. Are you done slamming into people while throwing around a ball?”

John grins in return. “For today.”

“Good,” Sherlock says. “I wanted to show you something I thought you might appreciate.”

“All right,” John says, “but after dinner.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but follows John into the dining room, complaining the entire time. “Really? Food again? Why do people always have to _eat_? It’s so boring. Haven’t you already had two meals today? ”

John tunes him out and helps himself to mashed potatoes and ham. 

Sherlock takes some food too, but mostly picks at it. 

“So,” John says, “You like Dorothy Sayers?

Sherlock shrugs. “Not really. I find detective stories slightly less dull than other literature, but I prefer reading about forensic science and real police investigations. Mr. Musgrave has some interesting volumes on the subject.”

“How's life here, then, generally?” John asks, taking a bite of his ham and mash.

“It’s all right. No better and no worse than any other place where I have to endure the presence of fifty other pubescent boys.”

“How long have you been here?”

Sherlock sighs and answers, sounding bored, “Two months. I was the first to arrive here after Mr. Musgrave decided to open the house to evacuees. My parents are friends with Mr. Musgrave, and so they removed me from my boarding school but couldn’t let me come home to our cottage in Sussex, because my father’s with the foreign office, my brother’s at Oxford and my mother’s a mathematician who’s off somewhere doing something for the war effort nobody can talk about. So no, my parents don’t own half of Sussex, but yes, they are rich. They’ll probably look for a new boarding school for me soon, if they don’t forget, which might very well happen. None of which is of any relevance to the pertinent point.”

“Which is what?” John asks.

“Anderson is an idiot.”

John smiles. “Yes, I sort of thought so, too.”

Sherlock smiles back. “Are you about finished eating? I want to go.”

John shovels the rest of his plate down at record speed. “Let’s go, then.”

*-*

To his surprise, Sherlock leads him upstairs and through a long gallery of portraits of what he can only assume are Mr. Musgrave’s ancestors. 

They arrive at a large double door, and Sherlock knocks. 

“Come in,” Mr. Musgrave’s voice answers. John looks at Sherlock, surprised, but Sherlock just opens the door and lets himself in, gesturing at John to follow, which he reluctantly does, trailing behind Sherlock.

The room is large and cosy and very obviously Mr. Musgrave’s study. Books and maps litter every surface, and the walls are covered in untidy bookshelves.

“Ah, Sherlock, my boy,” Mr. Musgrave says, and then his eyes alight on John. “And you brought a guest?” he asks, surprise very much evident on his face.

“Mr. Musgrave, this is John Watson. I was wondering whether I could show him your collection?”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Musgrave says, gesturing around the room invitingly. “I’m somewhat of a scholar of local history, you know, and I’ve been showing Sherlock some of my findings. He was the first boy to arrive, and in the beginning we had only each other to entertain. Now of course he has you all for company, which is infinitely better.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Most of them are imbeciles who can barely tie their own shoelaces,” he says. “Come on, John!” He pulls at John’s arm impatiently.

John nods politely at Mr. Musgrave. “Thank you, Sir.”

“You’re quite welcome, my boy, I’m gratified if my collection is of interest to anyone.”

John is saved from having to answer by Sherlock pulling him along behind him into the next room, which is filled with display cases, maps, globes, photographs and more books. 

The display cases are filled with bone fragments, spearheads, arrowheads, pottery shards, barely legible scrolls, animal teeth, human skulls and dozens of other things. The maps on the walls are mostly of the area, marking burial sites and ancient settlements.

“This is amazing,” John says under his breath, gazing from a Roman helmet and spear to a cloth that seems to be marked with Celtic runes. “He found all of this around here?”

Sherlock nods, grinning. “Yes. And I bet there’s more where that came from. Do you want to help me find out?”

John grins back, irrepressibly. “Oh, God, yes.”

*-*

Mr. Musgrave’s collection turns the mansion and the extensive grounds that belong to it from impressive house to magical wonderland. Or rather, if John is honest, it’s really Sherlock who does it. He drags John along into a world of mystery and discovery. They spend hours every day exploring the extensive woods that belong to Mr. Musgrave’s property, often returning home in the nick of time for dinner. Then after dinner, Sherlock and John spend hours with Mr. Musgrave’s collection, translating Latin inscriptions, figuring out whether a bone they found belongs to man or beast, is ancient or modern. More often than not, they’re chicken bones or rodent skulls, but it’s still an adventure. The area had been host to a Celtic village, replaced by a Roman fort, then a Norman castle, so there’s much to explore. Mr. Musgrave has a whole lot of books, too, especially on the practices and remnants of the Celtic druids, and on rainy days, John amuses himself by reading both fact and fiction about ancient times. Sherlock spurns fiction, claiming it’s a waste of time, but John adores stories and always has. 

He spends time with the other boys, too, playing rugby or football, and they often tease him for being friends with the oddball Holmes, but John doesn’t care, because even listening to Sherlock complain about how John is tedious for finding another rat skull is still the most interesting conversation he’s ever had.

The other boys dislike Sherlock, and it’s easy to see why. He’s blunt to the point of rudeness to everybody, snaps at John for being slow, constantly wakes him up at ungodly hours to tell him what an idiot everybody’s being, has already left several of his things strewn in John’s room, has no concept of peoples’ need to eat and sleep, sometimes ignores John for hours and then follows him around like a puppy, and has little to no concept of personal possessions, like John’s socks, or John’s pens, or John’s mug of tea.

But then he drags John off to another adventure excavating mouse remains or sneaking down to the beach to look for fossils, and John forgives him for being an obnoxious arsehole, because he’s also brilliant, and funny, and makes the world a magical place by his ability to look at it like a giant fascinating mysterious puzzle box just waiting to be solved.

*-*

Three weeks pass like this, and John already feels like he’s been here for years, and it's not an unpleasant feeling. John receives just one letter from his mother, and none from Harry, but since he didn't expect anything else, he's not disappointed, or at least he tells himself that he is not.

Sherlock, by contrast, gets a letter almost every day, many of them in ever-changing code, and John gets the impression Sherlock enjoys the code-breaking more than the actual content of the letters.

All in all, he's happier here than he's been in years. London, the war, his family, all are far away, and John's not unhappy about it.

But then he gets a reminder that the world is still burning, he’s just taking a holiday from watching the flames.

*-*

Sirens. Footsteps, running, shouting. Darkness.

John wakes, disoriented, the noises from his dream following him into the waking world.

There’s a knock at his door, and a voice in the darkness. “John! Get up! Come on, everybody’s already downstairs.”

It’s Sherlock, and John finally realises what’s happening: Air raid.

John gets up out of bed and pulls on his dad’s jumper, checking he’s still got the chain with the watch around his neck. He considers whether there’s anything else he can’t stand to lose, and decides this has to do because Sherlock bursts into his room and grabs his hand. “Come on!”

They rush down the stairs, Sherlock pulling John along, down into the wine cellar, where the boys, staff and Mr. Musgrave are already sitting on long benches. The cook is handing out blankets and biscuits.

John sits down and tries very hard not to shake to pieces. His hands are cold. He can’t seem to catch his breath. Sirens. Why are they so loud?

The cellar is suffocatingly close. So many people. 

“John.” 

There’s too little air in here. The drone of the heavy bombers is clearly audible through the ceiling. John can’t breathe. 

He’s done this a million times. This isn’t even his fiftieth air raid. He knows the likelihood of them being hit is low, the planes are probably heading for Exeter, but right now, all he can see is fire, and all he can hear are the screams of people dying. 

He can’t stay in here, he has to get up, get out, get some air, bombers be damned.

A hand on his arm pulls him back down even before he can get to his feet. 

Sherlock bodily turns John so he’s got his back turned to the other boys, who’ve started staring and whispering. He grips John by the shoulders and forces him to look at Sherlock and nowhere else. “Listen to me. John. Listen to me. Breathe, and listen. I found something.”

“What?” John asks, trying to get a deep breath through his panicked lungs.

“I found something in Mr. Musgrave’s old newspaper clippings.”

For a moment, John has trouble making sense of the words. They seem so unreal in the dim light of this wine cellar turned laughable air raid shelter. “What?”

“There’s an abandoned village not two miles from here. The entire population of that village vanished on the night of November 1st, 1918.”

“What?” John asks for a third time, but this time it’s more specific. “Vanished how?”

“They just vanished. Packed their things and disappeared into the fog. Nobody knows where they went. There was no blood, no bodies, no passages bought to America. Three hundred people, gone without a trace.” Sherlock sounds gleeful as he continues to tell John about the village. Apparently friends and family from other villages knew nothing of any of the inhabitants planning to leave, and yet evidently the entire village just packed up and left, taking chickens, clothes and even in some cases furniture with them. Efforts to call in the authorities were delayed by the village constable having been one of the vanished. 

“And nobody’s heard from them since?” John asks, intrigued and a little spooked by the story. 

Sherlock grins. “Not according to Mrs. Higgins, but I’m planning to ask Mr. Musgrave about it.”

There’s a sharp, piercing sound of sirens giving the all-clear, and slowly, everybody rises to their feet. John’s very aware that Sherlock’s still gripping his shoulders, and he too seems to suddenly notice it, because he lets John go and gets up, seeming a little embarrassed.

John gets up last, weak in the knees and feeling like he must reek of the cold sweat of fear. 

He grabs Sherlock’s arm as he turns to go. “Sherlock.” 

He doesn’t know what to say. He knows he would have panicked and made a fool of himself without Sherlock there, and he knows Sherlock knows it.

Sherlock turns back to him and looks at him, and for a moment their eyes lock and John feels like for the first time in his life, somebody’s looking at him and actually _seeing_ him. He opens his mouth again, but nothing comes out except a half-strangled, “Sherlock…”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Can we go now?” he asks, trying for annoyed but failing somewhat. “You’re the one who always goes on about how you need to sleep and how I’m a bastard for waking you up at three in the morning.”

John finds an answering smile, even though he suspects it isn’t entirely steady. “Wake me up anytime you wish.”

*-*

The next morning, over breakfast, Sherlock insults John’s intelligence and his dress sense in under two minutes, and everything is back to normal.

In the afternoon, they both retire to the library because it’s pissing rain outside and John is frozen solid. He grabs one of Mr. Musgrave’s historic fiction novels while Sherlock is perusing a chemistry textbook and correcting errors within it with a pencil, and playing with an ancient lodestone he found in Mr. Musgrave's collection and has taken to carrying around.

“I was too late to get into the underground station,” John says, suddenly, urgently needing to explain his panic, defend and justify himself. “You get used to it, down there, you know. Seems unreal. Sirens, bit of a rush, darkness. The adults trying to distract you. I even fell asleep more than once. But that time, we were too late, and my mum took me to a neighbours’ house who had a bomb shelter built in their backyard. It’s different, this far up. Everything was louder, and nearer.” He swallows. “Two bombs hit the street. We could feel the ground shake. There was screaming, and fires, and when we finally dared to crawl out of that shelter, everything we had in the world except the clothes on our back was gone.”

Sherlock has looked up from his book and is watching John with a carefully neutral expression. “Why do you think you have to tell me this?” Sherlock asks, tone also carefully neutral, like he’s academically interested and no more.

“So you won’t think I’m a coward?” John answers, hesitantly, looking down at his book. 

“First of all, being afraid of being bombed seems reasonable to me, not cowardly,” Sherlock says, still in that neutral, academic tone, which does a lot to ease John’s embarrassment at having brought up the subject at all. “And secondly, why would you care what I think?”

“Because you’re my friend?” John says, bewildered.

For a moment, Sherlock is silent. “Only idiots care about what other people think of them,” Sherlock says finally, turning back to his book, obviously dismissing the subject. But he keeps gazing at John thoughtfully when he thinks John’s not looking, and there’s an odd expression on his face.

*-*

John is so tired. So very, very tired.

The air raid disrupted his sleep, and they’ve had an exhausting day slogging through the mud yesterday’s rain turned the grounds into, and he’s sitting by the fire, only half listening to Sherlock questioning Mr. Musgrave about the village, which has turned into Sherlock’s newest obsession.

“Were there any signs of struggle?” Sherlock asks. 

“No,” Mr. Musgrave says. “It was eerie. It was like they all just walked out of their houses and decided to leave. Which is probably what happened, you know. I think they all just emigrated to America.”

“But you said nobody ever heard from them again,” Sherlock insists. “That’s not what people do. They write letters. They buy tickets. They communicate their intentions to their neighbours.”

Mr. Musgrave shrugs. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Sherlock.”

John closes his eyes and lets the sound of Sherlock’s questioning lull him into a doze.

“Your friend is asleep, it seems, “Mr. Musgrave says. “Maybe we’ll finish this tomorrow.”

“Friend…” Sherlock repeats the word like it’s the oddest thing he’s ever heard. “You’re the second person to use the word today. Do you think he’s my friend?” 

There’s something uncertain in Sherlock’s voice that makes John’s heart hurt a little. Like Sherlock is utterly unused to having this word applied to himself. 

“Why wouldn’t he be? You are, after all, remarkably similar,” Mr. Musgrave says, sounding amused.

“How are we similar?” Sherlock asks, curious. “John’s a bit above the common herd, of course, but he’s still quite normal, and people genuinely seem to like him. I’m a genius and people usually can’t stand me.”

“You both see past the surface,” Mr. Musgrove answers. “You both have the remarkable gift of seeing things the way they truly are, despite outward appearances.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and John decides he’s heard quite enough. He yawns and rubs his eyes, pretending to wake up, and Mr. Musgrave orders both of them to bed.

They walk along the corridor that leads to their respective bedrooms. Sherlock’s being uncharacteristically quiet, deep in thought. John tries to think of something to say that’s reassuring and still doesn’t give away the fact that he wasn’t asleep just now. 

“I want to go to that village,” Sherlock finally says. 

“It’s out of bounds,” John reminds Sherlock, but they both know he’s just protesting so he can blame Sherlock later when they get into trouble, which they most certainly will.

Sherlock turns abruptly and faces him. There’s something searching in his gaze in the dim light of the hallway. “So?”

John smiles. “So when do we go?”

Sherlock breaks out into a brilliant grin. “Tomorrow?”

“After breakfast.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “God, you’re so annoying, you always have to eat.”

John laughs. “Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiles at him a bit wistfully. “Good night, John.”

John turns and walks away, but Sherlock calls after him. “John?”

John turns back. “Yes?”

Sherlock hesitates. “Are we friends?” he finally asks, quietly, unsure, not at all his usual overconfident self.

“Of course we are,” John says, treating this heartbreaking question with the dismissive brazenness he knows he’d want to hear if he were Sherlock.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, and John has to smile.

“Because you’re an idiot,” John says, and the answering smile on Sherlock’s face is brilliant and beautiful and so very worth every irritating genius quirk of his. 

“Tomorrow, then,” Sherlock says, still grinning from ear to ear.

John nods, an affirmation and promise at once. “Tomorrow.”

*-*

It’s appropriately foggy the next morning as they set out in the general direction of the village. John brought a map, a compass and scrounged a few slices of bread and a lump of cheese from Mrs. Higgins, who isn’t supposed to feed them between meals but does so all the time.

Sherlock arrived late for breakfast and is in a rotten mood, so John leaves him alone to get himself out of it. 

They walk for a while in silence. They wind through the woods of Mr. Musgrave’s property and finally climb over the fencing that separates Mr. Musgrave’s woods from the neighbouring pasture.

It’s difficult to see in the fog, and John consults his map and his compass several times, but Sherlock seems to need no such help. He strides confidently along, as he seems to know where they’re going with certainty, but John has learned only last week that this can actually be deceiving, because they got horribly lost and it took them two hours to find their way back to Musgrave Hall.

Finally, they reach the road that used to lead to the village. It’s overgrown and in bad repair.

“What do you hope to find at the village?” John asks, breaking the silence for the first time since they left the house. 

Sherlock shrugs and keeps walking. “I’ll know when I find it.”

He falls silent again, and John lets him, because he knows by now that Sherlock this deep in thought is best left undisturbed. They continue walking along the path, mist settling in their hair and clothes, making everything damp and slightly uncomfortable. John looks at the sky occasionally in the hopes that the sun will break through the fog soon, it is July after all, but for now it doesn’t look likely.

After a while, they can make out the first houses in the mist, and slowly, the village reveals itself, street, shops with signs hanging from their hinges, open doors, rotting leaves in the street, ancient church spire vanishing in the mist.

It’s eerily quiet, and John feels a shudder run down his back. He’s not superstitious, but he’s also read more than his share of adventure novels, so he’s immediately tempted to imagine ghosts and madmen and smugglers. 

A dog barks in the distance, and he can hear the bleating of sheep from a nearby pasture, and of course the sea, pounding against the coastline, is the constant background music to life here. 

The houses are empty, but the kind of empty that makes it clear the inhabitants left in a hurry, but knew they wouldn’t be coming back for the foreseeable future. There are no rotting foodstuffs, and the wardrobes are open yet empty. Some of the doors stand open, and there are faded places where there’s an obvious piece of furniture missing, but nothing large. A chest, a picture frame, a grandfather clock shape still visible in the discolouring of the paint on the kitchen wall. The old church is stacked with crates and boxes, presumably the villagers’ belongings. 

“You think they were planning on coming back?” John asks, nudging at one of the crates with his foot. 

Sherlock shrugs, but doesn’t answer. He is gazing at everything with sharp-eyed fascination, looking for something, anything, that will tell them what happened here. He seems to have somewhat recovered from his sulk, the mystery driving out whatever it was that bothered him.

John, for his part, sees nothing that would give him any clue to the mystery. But then, he notices an odd sound. A humming, almost. It’s so soft and so deep he feels it more than hears it. 

“You hear that?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side. “What _is_ that?”

John tilts his head to better pinpoint the location the sound is coming from. “I think it's coming from your pocket.”

Frowning in confusion, Sherlock puts a hand into his coat pocket and pulls out the ancient lodestone he 'borrowed' from Mr. Musgrave's collection. The stone is black and roughly arrow-shaped, and it's vibrating ever so slightly.

Sherlock has wrapped a leather thong around it so he can let it spin – he likes doing that while he thinks, John's discovered – and he dangles it in the air now. The stone spins for a bit, and then it points towards the forest.

John checks his compass and swallows. “Sherlock,” he says, and Sherlock looks up to meet his worried gaze. “That's not north.”

“Ridiculous, it has to be north,” Sherlock scoffs.

John shows him the compass, and Sherlock's eyes go wide. 

“That's impossible,” he whispers. “The magnet in your compass and the lodestone are attracted and repelled by the same forces.”

“What do you think it's pointing to?” John asks, following the direction the lodestone's indicating. 

“Let’s find out,” Sherlock says and starts walking.

There’s a feeling of vague dread rising within John as they walk towards the forest and the almost-humming gets louder, and more noticeable, and this time it's not just coming from the strangely vibrating stone, but from the depths of the forest.

They step into the shade of the trees. There’s a well-worn path winding through the forest. They follow it.

The hair starts rising on the back of John’s neck and his arms, and the almost-humming gets more intense, to the point where it almost hurts his ears.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he says, more loudly than necessary, the almost-humming nearly deafening by now.

Sherlock turns to John, grinning gleefully. “Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

John sighs, but he follows when Sherlock leads them onward.

They step into a clearing that’s so abrupt and perfectly round as though someone had cut off the forest with a sharp-edged knife. Suddenly, abruptly, the humming stops.

Before them, a massive stone circle rises from the mossy ground. The stones are ancient, half fallen down, and yet still form a perfect circle. 

“Oh my god,” John mutters, looking over at Sherlock, whose expression shows the same awe John feels.

“How did we not know this is here?” John asks, checking his map. “It’s not on any of Mr. Musgrave’s maps.”

“Let’s take a closer look,” Sherlock says, face splitting into an excited grin. 

Apprehensive without exactly knowing why, John follows Sherlock closer to the stones, carefully stepping over smaller stones and boulders that seem to have melted into the earth. “How old do you think this is?”

“Thousands of years, surely,” Sherlock answers. 

They make their way into the inside of the circle, and as soon as they’ve both stepped inside, everything goes completely still. John hears nothing. No wind. No rustling. Not even the sea. It’s as if the stones have created a cone of silence. 

The lodestone has started spinning again, and it points directly at the gap between the two largest of the stones.

“This is odd,” John says, but Sherlock hushes him.

“Listen,” he whispers.

John listens intently. Then he hears it. It’s like… singing, but not. It’s more sensation than sound, making the hair on his entire body stand up.

Sherlock steps forward, almost like in trance, and raises an arm as if to touch the stone.

“Sherlock, don’t!” John yells and grabs Sherlock's arm, but the sound of his voice is swallowed by the ascending almost-singing, rising to a sudden cacophony of noise.

Suddenly, the entire circle seems to be spinning. John loses his footing and falls to his knees, disoriented and nauseous, the pressure in his ears almost unbearable. He screams, “Sherlock!” as he presses his hands over his ears.

Darkness engulfs him.


	2. Chapter 2

“John.”

Hands on his arm, his face, in his hair. 

“John.”

Hands shaking his shoulder, checking his pulse. 

“John!” Distinct thread of fear in the voice, panic making it crack.

John opens his eyes. Slowly, he sits up.

His head hurts. His clothes are damp. He’s completely disoriented. 

Sherlock helps him sit up and pats his back as he retches into the dewy grass. The sun is shining into his face.

Startled, he looks up. Sunlight. The last thing he remembers is mist, and forest.

The stones are gone. In their place are ancient tree-stumps. Metal rods holding oval bronze mirrors are placed in a perfect circle around the place they're standing in. Each of the mirrors reflects sunlight directly onto them. Around them, there's a circle of metal embedded in the earth, edged with what looks like writing in a script John doesn't even have a name for. The forest has changed, too, it’s lighter, wilder, younger, the clearing is larger and yet softer, more natural-looking, less man-made.

“Where are we?” John whispers.

“We haven’t moved,” Sherlock answers, not much louder. “But everything else has.”

*-*

Slowly, they get up and brush the dirt from their clothes. John still feels a little shaky, but steadier now. 

“All right?” he asks, and Sherlock nods absently, attention wholly focused on their surroundings. The stumps form a perfect circle around the ring of mirrors around them. Beyond, the forest is sun-drenched and quiet. 

“There’s something out there,” he says very quietly, stepping closer to John. “Something’s watching us.”

John grabs Sherlock’s arm. “What do we do now?” he asks, scanning the treeline.

Sherlock shrugs. “Return to the village, and from there to Musgrave Manor, I suppose.”

Walking closely together, spooked and yet unwilling to show it, they leave the circle and walk vaguely in the direction of the village. 

They've taken a few steps into the forest when Sherlock stops so suddenly John's almost bumping into him.

“What?” he asks, but Sherlock doesn't answer, he just points.

Above their heads, about twenty feet ahead, two creatures hover in the air between the crowns of the trees, gossamer wings keeping them afloat. At first John thinks they’re human, but as they slowly descend, he sees that they’re smaller, lighter, more graceful, with large eyes of earthy colours, hair the shade of trees, greens and browns, and skin in warm natural colours as well. They melt perfectly into the trees, and John is sure that neither he nor Sherlock would have seen them if they hadn’t chosen to reveal themselves. Both of them are holding small but well-used and dangerous-looking crossbows, and both of them are glaring at them suspiciously.

“Seems we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Sherlock says, awe-struck.

“This isn’t remotely funny,” John mutters. “Not even a little bit.”

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” Sherlock nudges him with his elbow, still not taking his eyes off the two descending figures.

“My sense of self-preservation is the one in charge right now,” John answers, wiping his damp palms on his trousers. But he does admit Sherlock has a point, underneath his fear, John is fascinated. Where are they? What are these creatures? What in the name of God is going on?

“They must be fairies,” John whispers, watching the two figures as they land on the forest ground in front of them.

“There’s no such thing as fairies,” Sherlock answers, rolling his eyes at John.

“What are they then?” He gestures at the two creatures.

Sherlock doesn't have time to answer, because the two – for lack of a better word – fairies have landed right in front of them and are pointing their crossbows straight at them. 

One of them speaks harshly to them in a language they don't understand.

“We don’t understand you,” Sherlock says, and the fairies exchange a glance.

“You came through the Gate. How?” one of them says in oddly-accented but clearly understandable English.

Sherlock and John exchange a glance, and from Sherlock's frown, John knows Sherlock is thinking the same thing. What Gate.

“What Gate?” John asks.

The two fairies exchange a few words in their odd, melodic language and then the one who spoke before says, “The Gate that brought you to Dera.” Her tone suggests that she thinks they're a bit slow.

Sherlock bristles at that tone. “I have no idea what you're talking about, but would you kindly show us the way to the village, and we'll just go home now.”

John puts a hand on his arm to calm him and adds, “Please. We're lost.”

The two fairies exchange a glance, then the one armed with the crossbow finally lowers the weapon. “You're children,” she says. 

John nods, relieved. “Yes, we are. We're children, and we're lost. I'm John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes. Please help us.”

Sherlock grimaces, but John elbows him and he keeps quiet.

“I'm Lya, this is Shae,” the fairy answers. “We will take you to the edge of the Faedorn. The rest we leave to your elders to decide.”

“Sounds brilliant,” John says before Sherlock can say anything.

“Come, then,” Lya says, and the two fairies turn around and walk into the forest, clearly expecting them to follow.

“They’re leading us in the wrong direction,” Sherlock says, quietly. “What do you think?”

“Do we have a choice? We’re lost, and it sounded like they’ll take us to the edge of the forest. Once we’re out of the forest, we can ask directions from the nearest farm,” John answers, and they follow the two retreating figures, hurrying to catch up.

The forest gets deeper, darker and denser the longer they follow their guides. They see the occasional doe in the distance, rabbits and squirrels, even a wild boar, but it’s still eerily quiet in the woods, life has hushed and is waiting for them to pass to resume its activity. Occasionally, they see odd lights in the distance, and hear a faint whisper, like laughter, in the wind, through the trees. John feels watched by eyes that aren’t exactly hostile, but not precisely friendly either.

Finally, the dark canopy of the trees seems lighter, and the trees aren’t quite so dense and close together. After about fifteen more minutes of the forest slowly tapering out, they finally step up to the tree line. 

“We leave you here, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes,” Lya says and inclines her head, oddly formally. “I hope we never meet again.”

“Er, thank you?” John says, nudging Sherlock, but he’s apparently already dismissed their guides and is staring off to his left.

Lya and Shae melt back into the forest, and John turns to face Sherlock to reprimand him for being rude, but then he catches sight of what Sherlock has been staring at, and his jaw drops. 

Before them, about a mile or two from the edge of the forest, lies a city. White stone walls, elegant spires, smoke curling from hundreds of chimneys. A river flows through the city and leads into the sea. A few farms dot the landscape on the other side of the city. A horse-drawn carriage is nearing the gates from a distance. The sun glints off the white city walls. 

“What the…” John whispers.

“What the indeed,” Sherlock answers.

*-*

“It’s a city,” John says for what seems like the hundredth time as they slowly make their way towards the city gates. “It’s a god-damned hidden city right in the middle of bloody Devonshire, and I’m pretty sure that’s not Exeter, either.”

Sherlock stops so abruptly John almost runs into him. He turns around and faces John. “I’m pretty sure we’re not in Devonshire any more.”

“You mean…” John whistles quietly as an idea occurs to him. “So you’re saying we stepped through a fairy ring into the Otherworld?”

“The what?” Sherlock frowns. 

“Tier-nan-Og? The Fairy Realm? Avalon?” John gestures at their surroundings. “Sound familiar?”

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Fairy Realm,” Sherlock scoffs. “You’ve finally proven the popular theory that reading fiction actually rots the brain.”

John crosses his arms. He’s tired, hungry and his feet hurt. “So where are we then? Explain it to me, Sherlock. Scientifically.”

“We’re in a parallel dimension, obviously,” Sherlock says, indignant.

“And now explain the difference, if you will,” John says.

For a moment, Sherlock is silent. “Shut up,” he says, finally, sullenly.

Their eyes lock, and the ludicrousness of arguing exactly how to term the parallel Otherworld they’ve stumbled into seems to hit Sherlock at the same time as John, because they both start laughing. Their hilarity has a hysterical edge to it, but John still feels loads better when they finally calm down. 

Whatever happens next, at least he’s here with a friend.

*-*

It’s almost dark when they approach the city gates. 

They stumble onto the actual road about a mile or so away from the city and join a steady stream of people walking or riding towards it. All of them are dressed in sturdy clothing made of leather and a soft, downy material they can’t place, and many of them are the same fairy creatures they met in the woods.

They have a brief argument how to proceed when they actually reach the city. Sherlock is more inclined to spend a night on the street, but John points out that they don’t have any food - bread and cheese from this morning are long gone -, they’re both wearing light summer clothing, and they stick out like a sore thumb, so much so that John’s caught more than one passer-by staring at them. Their clothes, their shoes, the fact that they’re dirty, exhausted, twelve and unaccompanied, all make them extremely conspicuous. John is all for going to the authorities, because maybe the police can help them get back home. Sherlock thinks the police are idiots, but since Sherlock thinks this of 99% of the human population, the argument is short, and John wins.

Indeed, when they approach one of the men guarding the city gates, he takes one look at them and frowns. “What’re you two supposed to be?”

His English is oddly accented, but obviously his mother tongue. 

John tells the guardsman their story, how they’re billeted at Musgrave Manor and came upon the stone circle, then got lost and were guided towards the city by two fairy creatures.

The guardsman scratches his beard, contemplating the two of them. “Come on, then. I’ll take you to Lestrade.”

*-*

Lestrade, as it turns out, is sort of a magistrate, John guesses, because he’s got an office in what is clearly a municipal building. 

The city’s architecture - what they can see of it in the gathering dust - is a mixture of the oddly familiar, stone and wood houses very much of a style with most English villages, and the strangely exotic, large, lofty spires with no doors, squat, cave-like structures seemingly made of living trees, houses that incorporate all sorts of elements. 

The building they’re taken to is comparably mundane, a simple, plain, three-story house that holds several offices as well as a few jail cells. 

Lestrade is a very ordinary-looking man approaching middle age, with salt and pepper hair and a kindly face. The guardsman ushers Sherlock and John in with a few muttered words of explanation. 

Lestrade gestures at two wooden chairs, and Sherlock and John sit down. 

“So,” Lestrade starts, gazing at them critically. “This is unusual. We haven’t had any newcomers in a very long time.”

“The last ones were a large group of about 300 people, all from the same village, correct?” Sherlock says, looking at Lestrade with his usual razor blade gaze.

Lestrade nods. “Just about, yes. May I ask how you know that?”

Sherlock shrugs. “The village on our side is abandoned. The stone circle near the village is a gateway to this world. There were drag marks on the path into the forest. Obvious.”

“Be that as it may,” Lestrade says, “It doesn’t really matter how you got here, what matters is what we’ll do with you. But I think I have an idea. Follow me.”

He gets up and holds the door open for the boys to pass through before them. Then he leads them outside the building and a few streets down, into an area that looks very much more conventionally English than the rest of the city. He knocks on the door of a tall, handsome building with a sign that reads “Baker Street School”. 

“Oh no,” Sherlock sighs. “I loathe boarding school.”

John just grunts. He’s numb with exhaustion, he’s cold, hungry and his feet hurt. All he wants now is a hot meal and bed, and they can figure out the rest tomorrow.

The door opens and an elderly matron welcomes them in. They’re ushered into the kitchen and into chairs, where bowls of steaming soup are placed before them, with soft, brown bread and actual butter. John eats happily, and even Sherlock tucks in, while Mr Lestrade fills in the elderly lady, whose name, they learn, is Mrs Hudson. 

“Can you take them?” Mr Lestrade asks.

“We’re not stray dogs,” Sherlock says between bites. “We’ll be off again tomorrow.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and then Mrs Hudson says, “Of course,” to Lestrade, as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “I’ve got a perfectly good room in the attic, it’s a little drafty but easily large enough for the two of them.”

Mr Lestrade says goodbye to them, and John remembers to thank him for both of them, since Sherlock can’t ever be bothered, and then Mrs Hudson sits down at the table with them. “I’ll get you some blankets and sheets,” she says, “And tomorrow we’ll see what we’ll do for clothes for the two of you.”

“We’ll just return home tomorrow,” Sherlock says, and narrows his eyes as Mrs Hudson visibly winces. “What? Why are you doing that?”

John’s been half-dozing, but he perks up when he realises that Mrs Hudson is deeply uncomfortable. “What is it?” he asks.

“Oh, I wish somebody had told you before, you poor boys. I thought Mr Lestrade might have mentioned it,” she frets, clearly upset. She looks at each of them in turn, sadness cutting deep lines into her soft, kind face. “The Gate has been closed for many years.”

“Which means what, exactly?” Sherlock says, staring at Mrs Hudson like he’s trying to read her mind to figure out whether she’s lying or not.

“You can’t go back.”

*-*

John can’t sleep. He’s exhausted beyond the capacity for rational thought, his entire body hurts with it, but he can’t sleep.

His mind replays the scene from the kitchen endlessly, Mrs Hudson’s words, explaining, gently, “It’s always the same story. The Fey'a (that's what they call themselves, you know, fairies is quite impolite) one day discovered that there are places where the walls between the worlds are thin, and they discovered how to travel through the mists into our world. And sometimes, people from our world stumble over one of the ancient doorways they built. So there’s been a steady influx of humans from England into this part of Dera - that’s what the Fey'a call this world - for the last few millennia. Many came in times of crisis, like the Saxon conquest, the Norman conquest, religious persecution. The last group that came were fleeing a disease that had killed many people. One of their number had been to Dera as a child and led the others here, with the help of some of the Fey'a. The problem was that feeding and clothing 300 people who showed up out of nowhere was a logistical burden on everybody, so the Magistrate at the time agreed with the Midnight Queen - that’s the Fey'a ruler - to close the Gate. So I wonder why you are here.”

But John knows. John knows why they’re here. They’re here because of Sherlock bloody Holmes and his stubborn, unthinking curiosity that radiates from his entire body in his every waking minute. 

John hasn’t said a word to Sherlock since they came up to their room. He can hear Sherlock, lying on his bed on the other side of the room. The silence is almost deafening.

Finally, Sherlock says, “John?” into the darkness.

“Leave me alone,” John says, turning away from Sherlock demonstratively. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

“I didn’t know we’d end up here,” Sherlock says, and the annoyance in his voice makes John’s hackles rise.

“You insisted we investigate the village. You knew something was wrong with the woods, you said so yourself. You saw drag marks, you thought they’d disappeared in the woods, and you didn’t bother to mention it. And when we were at the stones you did... something. You brought us here, and now we’re stuck!” John’s yelling that last part, tiredness, frustration and fear stoking his anger.

“And I don’t remember you saying, ‘Let’s go back, Sherlock’, or ‘I don’t want to, Sherlock’, not once. You loved every second of it, and just because our adventure had consequences I couldn’t possibly foresee…”

“Well, you bloody well should have, I thought you were a bloody genius!” John says sharply. “An entire village disappeared!”

“Again, I must have missed the many times you told me we should go back, that it’s dangerous and that you don’t want to be there,” Sherlock answers, snidely. “Really, John, if you want to be a hypocrite, at least be honest about it.”

John huffs and turns to the wall, wrapping his blankets about himself angrily. Bloody Sherlock Holmes and his bloody god-damned logic…

Slowly, his anger recedes, as he realises that Sherlock is right. He loved every second of it right up until the moment Mrs Hudson told them they’re stuck. 

Most of all, he’s scared out of his mind, and for the first time since he left London almost a month ago, he feels lonely, and homesick, and wishes his Mum were here. What if he never sees her again? What if she thinks he’s dead? What about Harry? It will devastate them. 

A quiet sob escapes him. He bites down on his thumb to stop himself, but another sob shudders its way out of him. He knows he’s not supposed to cry, but he can’t help it, he’s twelve years old and alone in the world.

“Shove over,” Sherlock says, from very close by.

John shifts a little and Sherlock unceremoniously crawls into John’s bed and arranges himself next to John so his entire side is pressed against John’s front and John’s head is resting near Sherlock’s shoulder. 

It should be awkward. He should be too old for this. What it is, though, is warm and good and comforting. He likes the way Sherlock smells, like carbolic soap and boy sweat. 

“I’m sorry,” John whispers, closing his eyes against the tears welling up again. “I’m just really scared.”

Sherlock sighs. “Me too.”

Silence falls again, and John starts to relax in the knowledge that whatever else he is, he isn’t alone. 

*-*

When John wakes up in the morning, Sherlock is still there, right next to him. It’s a bit cramped, but not uncomfortable. Sherlock’s staring at the beamed ceiling, obviously deep in thought. 

John stretches and Sherlock turns his head to look at John. “Finally. I thought you’d sleep all day.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after five.”

John groans and turns away from Sherlock. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock says, getting up and throwing clothes at John’s head. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“What? Where are we going?”

“To the Gate, obviously.”

“Mrs Hudson said it won’t open,” John points out but he’s starting to dress anyway. 

“I’m not going to take her word for it.”

John thinks about it for a minute. “How are we going to find it again, though?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “John. I’m a genius with a photographic memory. Do you honestly think I can’t find my way back?”

John sighs. He’s too tired and too scared to argue. “Fine. But fair warning: If we get lost in the woods and we're starving, I'm turning cannibal and eating you.”

Sherlock snorts a laugh. “Fair enough. Now will you move before Mrs Hudson calls us down for breakfast?”

John sighs and finishes dressing. Sherlock is right. They don’t have time.

John just hopes that if they fail to get back home, their sneaking off won’t mean they can’t return here, because Mrs Hudson seems a genuinely good sort. 

But, he thinks as he slips on his mud-encrusted shoes, it’s a risk they’re just going to have to take. 

*-*

They return the way they came, Sherlock finding his way unerringly. Apparently while John was stumbling after Mr Lestrade in an exhausted daze, Sherlock was paying very close attention, because he leads them straight to the gate they used last night to get into the city. The watchmen pay no attention to them as they walk out of the city gates, and soon they’ve left the city behind. It’s a sunny day, a breeze is blowing from the sea, and John feels invigorated by the sun and the fresh air. 

Around them, nature grows wilder as they approach the forest. They walk mostly in silence, only occasionally stopping to drink water from a brook or to rest in the shade of a tree for a few minutes.

Since they started so early, it’s still well before noon when they reach the edge of the forest. 

As they step under the trees, a hush falls. Birdsong stops mid-note, the sounds of wind and small animals rustling in the bushes ceases. 

They exchange a look and walk on. 

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, fog begins to rise. John's skin prickles with apprehension, and the vague feeling of being watched.

“This isn’t good,” John whispers, walking closer to Sherlock and suppressing the urge to grab Sherlock’s hand.

“Not good indeed,” Sherlock responds. Apparently he feels none of John’s reluctance, because he reaches out and grabs John’s hand, holding it tight. “We need to stay together no matter what,” he says, apparently feeling the need to justify himself.

John, relieved, squeezes Sherlock’s fingers reassuringly. “Yep. Definitely don’t let go of me, okay?”

Sherlock just nods.

Deeper and deeper into the woods they go, the fog slowing them down considerably. 

John loses all sense of time and space as they walk, seemingly endlessly, through trees and fog, and more trees and more fog. He’s long since abandoned any pretence that he’s got any idea where they’re going, and he knows Sherlock’s just as lost. And still they wander, and John feels a bit like he’s trapped in a nightmare, like he’s doomed to walk, and walk, and never stop.

Finally, they’re both too tired to go on. They’re in a small clearing with a cheerful little brook gurgling alongside, so they decide to rest here for a little while. Sherlock had stolen them a loaf of bread from Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, and they eat most of it, washing it down with the water from the brook.

John leans against a tree trunk and closes his eyes. “Can I ask you something?” he says, quietly.

“If you have to,” Sherlock answers, and for the first time John has known him, he actually sounds tired. 

“Yesterday, when we left Musgrave Hall, you were upset. Why?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer for so long that John almost thinks he won’t. Then he wordlessly reaches into his trouser pocket and withdraws a much-folded letter. He hands it to John almost absently.

John opens it and reads.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Mother and Mycroft send their love, they will write separately, since neither of them has been able to get leave to come home. Which brings me to the bad news I have to write. I’m sorry, Sherlock, but you can’t come home yet. Not this summer, and not in the autumn. As you well know, I’m stationed in London, and you can’t possibly join me here. I’m hardly at home, and the intensity of the German air strikes makes me fear for your safety even in far-off Devonshire. I’m trying to pull some strings to get you re-admitted to Darby, the fire was, after all, relatively small and the damage contained. Perhaps I can convince the Headmaster to give you another chance.  
If not, I am sure I will find another appropriate school for you. I will come to see you at Musgrave Manor as soon as my duties allow, but with the war going as it is, I unfortunately can’t as yet say when this will be.  
In the meantime, take good care of yourself and be brave, as we all have to be.  
Love,  
Father_

John tries to process the entirety of the letter, and finally settles on, “The fire was small?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch, and he shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “I was bored. The chemistry master left the door to the laboratory unlocked. It was a terrible breach of safety protocol, and they should have been grateful to me for pointing it out.”

“Was the place that horrible?” John asks, because something about Sherlock’s light tone rings awfully brittle.

“It wasn’t that bad, I suppose. It just...” Sherlock sighs and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up still further than it already naturally is. “It’s so very, very dull. School, I mean. Until the war broke out, Mummy taught Mycroft and me at home. Then Mycroft went off to Oxford and Mummy had to do her bit for the war effort, and I was shipped off to boarding school. At first I thought it would be a great challenge, to have other teachers beside Mummy. But I soon discovered that most of them knew less than I already did, and those who knew more taught subjects I didn’t care for. It was hell, trying to pretend to care for Shakespeare and dreary old history. Math, Chemistry, Physics, Latin, Greek, were hell likewise, because I had to sit through hours of teachers explaining -badly - things I’d learned years ago, and sometimes they taught things the newest research had already disproved. When I argued with them, I was given detention. It was so, so very dull. And the other boys hated me, for knowing more than them, for being uninterested in sports, for outperforming them without even trying. So I started to sneak out of my dorm room at night to read in the library, or experiment in the chemistry lab. One day, I feel asleep over the Bunsen burner. The fire really was very minor.”

John flashes him a weak smile. “So you don't want to go back there.”

“No. But it doesn't matter where they'll send me next, it'll be just as bad, and I doubt Father will leave me at Musgrave Manor for long.” He sighs, a deeply frustrated sound. “Oh, what I wouldn't give to be an adult and to make my own decisions.”

“If we were adults, we’d be fighting a war right now, you realise that?” John says.

“There is that,” Sherlock agrees, quietly, leaning against a tree, and silence falls again.

“Do you think we’ll get to fight, if we return? Do you think by the time we’re eighteen, the war will still go on?” John asks after a while.

Sherlock shrugs. “Father says if the Americans don’t enter the war, we won’t last that long.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter all that much, since I’m bound for the Army anyway, you know, family tradition and all,” John concedes. 

Sherlock is watching him critically. “Don’t you think the generations of soldiers in your family might have fought for one of them not to die on foreign soil for a cause they couldn’t care less about?”

Unconsciously, John’s fingers drift to the watch still hanging on a chain around his neck. “Fighting Nazis isn’t a cause I don’t care about. And fighting the people who killed my dad isn’t one, either.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just nods, reluctantly conceding the point. For a while, neither of them speaks, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. 

“We should go on,” Sherlock finally says.

“Go where?” John asks, gesturing around them. The fog surrounds them like a wall, muffing all sounds of life. They could be the last two beings on this world, for all John knows.

“I don’t think staying here is an option,” Sherlock says. “And there is this,” he adds and pulls the lodestone out of his pocket. “It led us to the Gate on our side, might as well do the same thing here.”

The lodestone spins for a while, then points into the fog. “North?” Sherlock asks.

John checks his compass and shakes his head.

“Well, then that's our best option.”

Reluctantly, John concedes the point and gets to his feet. This time it’s him reaching out and grabbing Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s surprised for a moment, then closes his fingers around John’s.

“Lead on,” John says, trying to smile. He’s pretty sure he fails. 

Sherlock nods, and together they step into the fog again.

*-*

They walk, and walk, and walk. 

The fog intensifies, and as it does, the light around them slowly fades, until it’s so dark they can barely see where they’re going.

After what might be hours, or minutes, the trees reveal the clearing. The bronze mirrors are dark and wet with condensation, and the iron ring in the middle is barely visible. 

Slowly, carefully, not letting go of each other, they make their way into the center of the circle and step into the metal ring. 

Nothing happens.

They wait for a few minutes, eyes squeezed shut, concentrating on home, home, home.

Finally, Sherlock drops his hand and steps out of the metal ring. He lets his gaze wander over the clearing. “What are we missing?” he mutters. “There must be something we're missing. Why did it work yesterday and not today?”

John steps out of the ring and goes to sit down on one of the tree stumps serving as pillars for the mirrors. He feels oddly numb. There should be fear somewhere, grief, despair, but it’s like the heavy fog around them keeps his feelings dampened as well. Or maybe he’s just too tired.

Sherlock paces around the clearing, looking for god knows what, and John just sits there and feels the damp from the fog seep into his clothing. 

Finally, Sherlock stops a few paces away from where John is sitting. “Look,” he says, pointing at the earth. “Something was dug up here.”

“Like what?” John asks, looking at the spot as well. He sees nothing, but he doesn't ask if Sherlock is sure something was dug up, because of course Sherlock is, and that means he's probably right.

Sherlock shrugs. “No idea.” He pauses for a moment, and then says, uncomfortably, “Apparently you were right.”

“About what?” John asks wearily.

“I stranded us here.”

John shrugs. “It’s not like you did it on purpose.”

“What difference does that make?” Sherlock snaps. “The effect is the same.” 

“Of course it makes a difference,” John says, wearily rubbing a hand over his face. “Intent always makes a difference.”

“If I trip you on purpose and you break your leg, or if you trip over my feet by accident and you break your leg, your leg is equally broken,” Sherlock points out, and John shakes his head. 

“That’s rubbish, and you know it. If you tripped me, you wanted to hurt me, so it will affect me differently. My leg may be equally broken, but I won’t feel the same way about it.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “That’s your fallacy right there, John. Feelings. Emotions. They’re unreliable.”

“No, they’re not,” John says, getting up from the tree stump he’s sitting on. “Come on, let’s try to go back to the city. I’m freezing.”

He holds out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock looks at him warily, and for the first time since John’s known him, he seems uncertain of what to do next. “And what then?”

John shrugs. “I don’t know. But we’ll manage. Together,” he says, and smiles at Sherlock encouragingly, hoping Sherlock can’t tell it’s mostly fake. Honestly, he feels like rolling into bed and crying, but he knows one of them has to be strong right now, and that it has to be him. 

Sherlock looks at him, his unusually coloured eyes locking on John’s. Something shifts in the air between them, almost tangibly, and then Sherlock clasps John’s hand, like he’s come to a decision.

“All right,” he says, “let’s go back to the city and get to work. There has to be a way to get that Gate to open.”

John smiles. “Let’s find it then.”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s raining. Their attic room is cold and the rain pelts a staccato rhythm against the roof over their heads. John is so very, very tired. He’s trying to read, but he’s had a long day. He’s had a long couple of weeks, to be precise.

At least he’s done with his chores for today. He’s fed the chickens, brought in firewood and swept the classrooms, all is ready for tomorrow’s school day. It helps Mrs Hudson and earns them a few coppers pocket money. He had his tea in the kitchen with Mrs Hudson like every evening, and he’s tried to get Sherlock to eat something, unsuccessfully. 

He turns his head and looks at Sherlock, who’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged, staring at a broken-down blackboard he carried up to their room a few days ago. It’s plastered with ripped-out pages of books, notes in Sherlock’s messy handwriting, newspaper articles, diagrams and maps. It contains every scrap of information about the Gates they’ve been able to gather during the two months they’ve been here. 

It’s gotten them precisely nowhere so far.

Sherlock’s quiet. He’s been quiet for days. At first, he was all manic energy, roaming the city streets and spending hours with John at the local library, devouring every book about travelling between worlds they could find. It’s not like they’ve learned nothing. There are several known Gates. Most of them aren’t what you would call easily accessible. All of the gates on the British Isles have been closed down or destroyed. And even if they hadn’t been, nobody they’ve talked to and no book they’ve read has told them how to open a gate. And the Fey’a won’t help, because they don’t want more humans to come here.

And with every information they gained telling them returning home was impossible, Sherlock has lost a little drive, a little energy, a little hope.

John knows how he feels, because he feels pretty much the same. But John is gritting his teeth and keeping calm and carrying on and all that toss, mainly because he’s so used to it by now. Life has been shit for so long that it doesn’t make all that much of a difference if he’s here or there. Ever since his dad died, it’s been a downhill slide, first his sister left, then his mum grew distant and less and less interested in him, school was a horrible lie, telling him he had a bright future when his destiny was clearly to die in a muddy trench in France somewhere. So being here isn’t as bad as it could be, at least there aren’t any air raids.

But Sherlock...clearly, Sherlock has a family he misses and a future he was counting on. And an unsolvable puzzle. 

He looks at Sherlock. He’s pale and looks almost small, wrapped in the blanket off his bed to ward off the cold. John’s pretty sure he hasn’t eaten all day and he also doesn’t know when Sherlock last got a good night’s sleep, since he fell asleep last night to Sherlock sitting in that same spot and found him there this morning.

“I’ll make a fire in the oven,” John offers.

Sherlock doesn’t react. His curls are damp, a clear sign that he roamed the streets again rather than sit through the endless boring hours of classes that are inflicted on both of them but which Sherlock mostly ignores. 

So far, Mrs Hudson hasn’t made him go. It’s obvious she feels sorry for them, especially for Sherlock, and John thinks it a bad sign that Sherlock doesn’t even notice her friendliness is mostly pity. 

John gets up and throws another blanket over Sherlock. “You’ll get pneumonia,” he says, not expecting to get an answer. 

Sherlock stares at the blackboard some more.

John sighs, and takes up his book again.

The rain seems unnaturally loud in the total silence of the room. 

The last thing John hears before he falls asleep is Sherlock’s fingers, tapping rhythmically against the floorboards, an oddly fitting counterpoint to the rain. It’s almost like music.

*-*

“John.”

John slowly surfaces from sleep, comfortably warm and relaxed.

“John.”

“What?” he answers automatically, swatting at the hands shaking him awake.

“John!” 

It’s still pitch dark when John opens his eyes. Sherlock is sitting on his bed, staring at him. He groans and turns around, trying to pull his blanket over himself more firmly. 

“John!”

“What?” he asks again, more grumpily this time. Then he realises that Sherlock has left his spot on the floor, and that he’s actually _talking_. “What is it?” he asks, curious and concerned now, and wide awake.

“I know what it is,” Sherlock says quietly. 

“What it is?” 

“The Gate,” Sherlock says, impatiently running a hand through his curls. “It should have been obvious much sooner!”

John feels a vague sense of excitement bubbling up. “So what is it?”

Sherlock grins. “It’s an Einstein-Rosen-Bridge.”

“A what now?” John asks.

“A tunnel between two points in space-time.”

John runs a hand over his face. It’s the middle of the night and he has no idea what Sherlock is talking about. “What?”

“How many more times do you intend to say ‘what’ in this conversation?” Sherlock snaps, apparently irritated at John’s stupidity. 

“Until you speak actual English,” John says, leaning against the wall behind his bed. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “All right. An Einstein-Rosen-Bridge connects two points in space-time, meaning essentially you can cross large distances or even dimensions instantaneously. It bends space-time.” Sherlock grabs John’s hand and puts one of his fingers on the back and one on the palm. “Imagine there’s a tunnel between the tips of my two fingers and it goes right through your hand. So I can travel through your hand, and don’t have to take the long way around. That’s an Einstein-Rosen-Bridge.”

John gazes at Sherlock’s hand and his own, slowly letting this new idea sink in. “All right,” he finally says. “I think I understand. But how does this help us?”

“It means that it doesn’t matter if the Gates are closed,” Sherlock says, grinning like a maniac, and John grins back, relieved to see the spark returned to Sherlock’s eyes. 

_I’ve missed you,_ he thinks. “Why doesn’t it matter?” 

“Because it means the bridge is still there, we just have to find a way to access it. The mirrors and the metal are obviously a stabilising field, all that's missing is an energy source. That's what was removed! We find out what the energy source is, we can replace it and re-open the Gate.”

“Okay,” John says, yawning hugely. “Sounds good. Now go to sleep.”

Sherlock snorts but makes himself comfortable on John’s bed, not protesting, and that says a lot about how tired Sherlock must be. John lies back down again, accommodating himself around Sherlock’s sprawling limbs. It should be cramped, but Sherlock somehow fits himself into all the spaces John doesn’t need, and John pulls the blankets around both of them, too comfortable to complain about Sherlock waking him up and then taking up half of his bed. Truth be told, he likes it, even though he would never admit it. He’s not supposed to like sharing a bed, he knows they’re too old for this. But Sherlock doesn’t give a toss about what he’s supposed to do, and John is inclined to think that Sherlock has a point.

So John goes back to sleep with Sherlock’s breath in his ear, and Sherlock’s chest pressed against his arm, and if he snuggles a little closer to Sherlock, then, well, nobody needs to know.

*-*

Sherlock’s in the kitchen when John comes in for supper. His hands are cold and his ears are freezing, but the rest of him is warm with exercise and fun.

Mrs Hudson smiles at him. “John, hello. Did you have fun at football?”

John nods and sits down at the table. “Yes, Mrs Hudson. Thank you for suggesting it.”

Mrs Hudson sets down the pot of stew and John automatically helps her set the table and get water. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice them, he’s reading a Feyara (the Fey’a language) newspaper, only moving when he’s turning a page. He’s still spending much, if not most of his time trying to find any and all information on the gate, trying to find a clue to how they might reopen it.

“You should join in as well, Sherlock, a little exercise wouldn’t hurt you,” Mrs Hudson says, handing Sherlock a bowl of stew, who takes it without looking, his attention still on the paper.

“He hates sports,” John answers for Sherlock. He takes his own bowl from Mrs Hudson and starts eating. He’s ravenous. He’s always hungry these days. Probably a growth spurt. Hopefully, since he’s still on the short side for his age. 

“What’s new?” he asks Sherlock, gesturing at the newspaper. 

Sherlock shrugs, but finally looks up from the paper. He starts eating mechanically without much gusto. “Break-in in a Fey'a jewelry store. Apparently somebody stole a whole safe's worth of something called Fey'a crystal. Watch confidently expects to make an arrest, meaning they probably haven't the first idea what happened.”

John snorts, amused, and Sherlock flashes him a quick grin.

Mrs Hudson sits down at the table and starts eating as well. “It’s amazing how quickly you learned Feyara, Sherlock,” she says, gesturing at the newspaper.

Sherlock shrugs off the praise, but John knows him well enough by now to realise that he’s actually pleased. “It wasn’t that difficult, Mrs Hudson.”

“It’s a foreign language with no resemblance to any language you already know, and you learned it well enough to read a newspaper in the three months we’ve been here,” John points out. He doesn’t say that he himself still has problems with childrens’ books. 

“I actually achieved full reading comprehension about five weeks after we got here, though I must admit I’m still having problems with certain pronunciations,” Sherlock corrects him, trying and failing to look bored.

“Oh, stop showing off,” John says, tucking into his stew. “This is excellent, Mrs Hudson.”

“Yes, quite, your ability to cook dead animals together with root vegetables is nothing if not legendary.. ow!”

Sherlock glares at John, who’s grinning at him and removing his foot from Sherlock’s toes. “It’s quite delicious,” Sherlock grinds out between clenched teeth, and John’s grin widens.

They finish their stew with John and Mrs Hudson chatting about some of the boys John played football with, most of whom attend their school. 

After dinner, Sherlock disappears and John helps Mrs Hudson with the dishes.

She pats his cheek. “You’re a dear boy,” she says, smiling at him. “I’m glad you came to stay with me. Both of you,” she nods in the direction Sherlock disappeared to. “He’s an odd one, that boy. But you can tell his heart’s in the right place.”

John wonders how exactly Mrs Hudson can tell, but since he agrees, he doesn’t argue. “We’re glad we’ve got you, too,” John says, meaning every word. Mrs Hudson’s unquestioning kindness to them makes this strange place almost into a home. 

Mrs Hudson kisses his cheek and John has to leave the kitchen after that, because he’s blinking back tears and embarrassed and flight is the only option.

He leaves out the back door, and finds Sherlock leaning against the wall next to the kitchen. “Ready?”

John doesn’t even ask for what. He just nods, and follows Sherlock outside into the slowly darkening city.

*-*

First stop, as always, is the baker who sells them day-old sweet buns for a few coppers just before closing.

Afterwards, they walk along Baker Street and into the city, ducking into alleys and taking short-cuts until they arrive at the jewelry store, as John knew they would. He knows by now that Sherlock can't let a puzzle go unsolved. 

“What do you hope to find that the police missed?” John asks, even as he steps closer to the building. 

Sherlock's already deep in contemplation, gazing at the elegant tower. Most Fey'a shops are like this, a cheap door on street-level, a small staircase leading up an elegant spire with a display-room on top, the proper entrance to the shop twenty feet up. 

Sherlock steps closer to the wall and feels the surface with his fingertips, then squints upwards. “Grappling hook,” he says, almost to himself, and points up. “See the scratch marks on the window sill? And the wall here is scratched. Somebody climbed up here.”

“So?” John asks, again wondering how obvious some of Sherlock's observations seem- after he's pointed them out. “We already know the shop was burgled.”

“Yes, but the Watch thinks it was a Fey'a, because humans don't care about Fey'a crystal, apparently. Seems some humans do,” Sherlock adds, with a gesture at the wall. “I think I'll write an anonymous tip to Lestrade.”

Satisfied, Sherlock turns and strides away, John almost running to keep up with him. 

They don't return to Baker Street right away, but roam the city streets. They both love walking around the city, just getting to know it, the noises and the people, shops and carts and horses and dogs barking. Temera is a lively place, teeming with food vendors and street performers. Sherlock never takes the same route twice, and John loves walking after him, always feeling like he's about to be whirled into the next adventure, even if it's only watching a juggler or buying an especially tasty hot treat.

Today they end up in the market square, where a band of Fey'a artists have set up a makeshift stage and are juggling and performing songs for an appreciative crowd of city-dwellers, both human and Fey'a.

John watches the performers, Sherlock mostly watches the people coming and going, occasionally whispering a deduction to John. 

The performers take a break shortly after sundown, and John checks his watch, which nowadays hangs from a chain on the inside of his jacket. “Come on, we need to go,” he says, tugging at Sherlock’s elbow.

Sherlock is still watching the crowd. “Yes, yes,” he says and lets himself be dragged along by John. 

There’s a commotion in front of them, somebody apparently fell down, and a few people are leaning over them. Somebody jostles John from behind and shoves him into a boy roughly his age. John loses his balance and trips, falls down to the ground. Sherlock is there two seconds later, pulling him up. “You all right?” he says, brushing the dirt off John’s jacket efficiently.

“Yes, fine,” John mutters, wiping mud off his jacket and… No. No, no, no, no! “My watch! My watch is gone!” Oh, no, no, no. 

John grips Sherlock’s arm, staring at him in blind panic. His watch, his father’s precious watch. 

Sherlock grips John by the shoulders. “John. Breathe.”

John can’t. His watch. His father’s watch. It’s the only thing of any value John possesses in this world or in their own. The only thing connecting him to his dad’s fading memory. Tangible proof that John Francis Watson existed, breathed, laughed, loved his son. 

He feels cold. 

Warm hands frame his face. Sherlock is leaning in, holding John’s head in his hands. “John.” His voice is warm and soft and very close. “Breathe.”

John breathes. Slowly, he calms down. The noises rush back, the people milling around them push at them from all sides, but they’re standing in the flow like stones, letting rivers of people wash around them.

“All right?” Sherlock finally says, and John nods, shaky.

Sherlock smiles and lets John go. “Good. Now go home and don’t wait up.”

With that he vanishes into the crowd. 

Confused, dazed, John does what Sherlock told him. He walks home, goes into their room, gets undressed, and crawls into Sherlock’s bed instead of his own, all the while not allowing himself to think about it.

*-*

Sherlock is gone for 24 hours. John tries hard not to panic. He hides Sherlock’s absence from Mrs Hudson as well as he can, which isn’t difficult because he rarely attends school and often misses meals. He also tries to hide his growing worry and fear, and that’s much harder. He lies awake half the night, waiting for Sherlock to sneak in. Normally he curses Sherlock for how noisy he can be when John tries to sleep, but the unnatural silence in their room keeps him awake more completely than Sherlock’s banging and muttering ever could. 

John tries to go through his day as usual, but he drops the firewood on his toes twice, can’t listen to a word his teachers are saying and runs up to their room between classes to check whether Sherlock has returned.

By dinnertime, John is so worried he’s honestly considering going to see Mr Lestrade. He can barely swallow his food, barely listens to Mrs Hudson, every thought in his mind drowned by the worry that Sherlock might not come back. What’s he supposed to do if Sherlock doesn’t come back? He can’t do this alone. 

Shortly before bedtime, finally, finally, their door opens and Sherlock comes in, followed by another boy, about their age, with shaggy blond hair, bedraggled clothes and a belligerent expression.

“Where have you been?!” John almost yells.

Sherlock points at the boy. “John, this is Billy Wiggins. Billy Wiggins, John Watson.”

Billy nods at John, arms crossed over his chest. “You said there’d be food.”

“John, would you be so kind as to get some food for our guest?” Sherlock asks and sits down in one of the room’s two chairs. “Billy, won’t you sit?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Billy says and drags the other chair over to their oven. 

John is still staring at Sherlock, rooted to the spot. Sherlock looks like he spent the last day and a half playing a rough and tumble game of rugby. His clothes are dirty, his hair is tousled and there’s an excited gleam in his eyes. “John, would you fetch Billy something to eat, please?” Sherlock repeats, and in an unobserved moment, he actually winks at John.

Somehow, that wink galvanises John into motion, and he runs down to the kitchen to raid the storeroom. He returns not five minutes later with bread and some cold ham, and a half pint of milk.

He sets it down on their small rickety table and Billy starts wolfing down the food with his hands, showing no finesse whatsoever. Sherlock and John watch him eat in silence. John looks over at Sherlock questioningly, and Sherlock gets up from the bed, casually sauntering over to the door to their room, leaning against it. John raises a questioning eyebrow and nods in Billy’s direction, but Sherlock only grins and says nothing.

When Billy’s done eating, he leans back in his chair. “Now, what’s this all about then? This one,” he gestures at Sherlock, “said you blokes need some information?”

“Billy, this is John Watson,” Sherlock says, gesturing at John. “I want you to give him back his watch.”

In an instant, Billy is out of his chair. “You lying sod! I never took nothing off nobody, and I dare you to prove it!”

“Gladly,” Sherlock says, still leaning seemingly casually against the door, but effectively blocking Billy from running away. “Turn out your pockets, then, and prove me wrong.”

Stunned, John moves closer to Sherlock to help him, should Billy decide to make a run for it.

“I don’t have to, you arrogant sod! You’re no copper, nor no magistrate neither, you’ve got no right to accuse me of anything,” Billy says, and it’s clear from his demeanour that he’s neither afraid of them nor in any way prepared to be cooperative.

“Billy,” John says, quietly, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “That’s my dad’s watch. He… he died, not long ago. Sherlock and me, we’re not from here. We can’t go home. It’s the only thing I have left of his.” He swallows. “I don’t even have a picture,” he adds, looking at the floor so he doesn’t have to watch this street-wise hard-shelled boy eye him suspiciously. 

“I’m not saying you took it,” Sherlock adds, matching his tone to John’s, serious and quiet. “Maybe you found it lying on the ground at the marketplace. No harm in picking up something from the ground, right?”

Billy’s silent for a long time. Then, finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something gilded and heavy. “Might’ve found this on the street,” he mutters, putting it on the table.

John breathes out an audible sigh of relief, then picks up the watch with trembling fingers. He lovingly lets his fingers run over the name inscribed, so similar to his own. _John Francis Watson on his eighteenth birthday, September 9th, 1919._

“Thank you, Billy,” John says.

Billy clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “Yeah, all right,” he mutters. “Don’t mention it.”

Sherlock moves away from the door, nodding at Billy. “Trust us on this, we won’t tell anyone.”

Billy hesitates. “What’d he die of, then?” he asks, gesturing at the watch.

“The war,” John answers. “He was a soldier who didn’t come home. One of many where we came from.”

“War? Weren’t that over when our folks first come here?” Billy asks, scratching his probably lice-infested head in confusion.

“Different war,” Sherlock says. 

Silence falls, and still Billy lingers. 

John finally tears himself from the contemplation of his watch. “You want some tea, Billy? Sherlock?”

Both nod, and John hands out mugs from the pot he’s kept warm on top of their oven. Billy drains his cup quickly, seemingly deciding that there’s not much more to be gained here. “Well, gents, I’ll be off, then,” he says.

Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and produces a copper. “For your trouble, Mr. Wiggins,” he says, tossing the coin at Billy, who catches it and grins.

“You two’s all right,” he says, then turns to go.

In the doorway, he turns back again. “Wait a tic, you two’s the blokes who came through the Gate, like, a few weeks ago, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and John nods.

Billy looks between them, and seemingly decides something. “How the blazes did you get through the Gate?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Nobody knows, since the Gate is supposedly closed.”

Billy snorts. “That’s a load of bollocks, right there. Listen, the present lot in charge, right, magistrate and all, they’re not a bad lot, but they’re stupidly naive when it comes to the Fey’a. Takin’ their word for it that the Gate is closed.”

“What do you mean?” John asks.

“People is sayin’, nowadays, how lucky we are that the Fey’a opened the gate for us to come, but story goes they didn’t exactly do it for free, supposedly took half the food the villagers brought from Earth,” Billy says, “and in the old days, the Fey’a used to kidnap humans to make them work for them. So I don't understand why the Watch are just takin' their word that it's closed. I'll tell you somethin', if you got through, the Gate isn't really closed. And I'd be surprised if you're the only ones. Least if you ask me.”

John nods, too overwhelmed to take in the implication of the story.

“Well, see you around, gents,” Billy says with a parting salute and closes the door behind him.

Silence falls. John is still staring at the door.

“Well, that was interesting,” Sherlock finally says. “I’m knackered, though.”

John turns to Sherlock. Messy, unruly, obnoxious, blunt to the point of rudeness, impatient Sherlock who calls him an idiot ten times a day. Who just went missing for 24 hours to track down the pickpocket who stole John’s single valuable possession. 

Without really thinking about it, John walks over to Sherlock and hugs him. 

Clearly uncomfortable, Sherlock pats John on the back twice, then clearly has no idea what to do. 

John steps back, embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says, looking at the floor.

Sherlock clears his throat. “No, it’s... fine,” he says, vaguely embarrassed. “I should...” he points at the bathroom. 

“Yes, yes, definitely,” John says, forcing a smile through the awkward mess of his emotions. He steps aside to let Sherlock pass.

Sherlock nods, once, clearly still wrong-footed, and disappears into the bathroom. 

Exhausted, John sits down on his bed, then lies down, fully clothed. He falls asleep still clutching his father’s watch in his hand. 

*-*

The next day over dinner, John’s still parsing what Billy told them about the gate, and the Fey’a. 

Sherlock has fallen into one of his silent spells again, sitting in front of the blackboard where he’s pinned all the information they’ve accumulated about the gates. He’s added some equations John doesn’t even pretend to begin to understand.

When John tells him it’s dinner time, he doesn’t even look up. So John has dinner with Mrs. Hudson alone, as he has so often.

He waits until they’re both seated in front of their pie (Mrs. Hudson’s crust is amazing) before starting his line of questioning. 

“Mrs. Hudson, how long have you been here? On Dera, I mean.”

Mrs. Hudson smiles absently. “Oh, dear, I was born here.”

“So you know a lot about the Fey’a.”

“I wouldn’t say anyone knows much about the Fey’a, dear,” Mrs Hudson answers. “Or the ones who live in the Forest, at least. The ones in the city are mostly like everybody else. Why do you ask?”

John thinks of how to best phrase what he wants to know. “Do you think they’re… good?” he finally asks, making a face even as he says it, knowing he sounds like a child.

Mrs Hudson shrugs. “I don’t think I can answer that, dear. I think many of them are good, and some of them might not be, just like the rest of us.”

“When they opened the gate for the last time, for the people from the village, did they really take half their food?”

“I don’t know, dear, and I can’t say that anyone’s ever told me anything of the sort, and my family was from that village originally,” she begins. “But then again, the only one who ever told stories in my family about that time was my great-grandmother, and she was just a wee child when they came through.” She smiles wistfully. “I still have a picture of her with her father. Do you want to see it?”

John nods, confused. Great-grandmother? 

Mrs. Hudson gets up and rummages around in an ancient dresser. She pulls out something and hands it to him.

It’s a photograph. Washed-up, browned with age, barely recognisable. It’s a girl of maybe six, seven years of age with a handsome soldier in a British Army Infantry uniform from the Great War. 

He turns the picture around. There, washed-out and barely legible, is the date. November 10th, 1917.

“You said this is your great-grandmother?” John asks, feeling nauseous. 

“Yes, and my great-great-grandfather. Handsome, wasn’t he?” Mrs. Hudson talks on about them, entirely oblivious to John’s clammy hands and racing heart. 

_1917\. That was 24 years ago. How can this child be this old woman’s great-grandmother?_

He does the math in his head. Assuming Mrs. Hudson is sixty years old, and assuming her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother all had children no later than 20, that’s still 120 years. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as awful as he feels. “Can I show this picture to Sherlock?”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says and hands him the picture.

John runs up the stairs as quickly as his feet carry him. He bursts into the room, and Sherlock looks up from the book he’s reading, surprised by John’s sudden entry.

“Look at this,” John pants. “That’s Mrs. Hudson’s great-grandmother.”

Sherlock takes the picture John is holding under his nose with an air of disgust. “Honestly, John, why would I care…. oh.”

“Look at the date on the back,” John says, sitting down on his bed on shaky legs.

Sherlock turns the photograph around and nods thoughtfully. “It makes a certain amount of sense, I suppose,” he mutters, striding over to his blackboard and picking up the chalk. He scribbles out formulae and murmurs nonsense words to himself.

“So we time travelled?” John asks, confused now.

Sherlock shrugs. “Either that, or time passes more quickly here than on Earth. Both are equally possible or impossible.”

“What does this mean for going back, though?” John rubs a hand over his face and steps up to the blackboard. 

For a moment, Sherlock is quiet. Then he sighs and stops writing. “Truth be told, John, I don’t know.” He gestures at the equations. “This is a waste of time. Understanding the physics of it is important, but it won’t get us anywhere.”

“So what do we do now? What if Billy’s right and the Gate isn’t really closed?”

Sherlock turns to John. “Let’s find out.”

*-*

This time, they don’t just stumble into the Forest. This time, they prepare. 

They dress warmly and take blankets, it’s summer but the nights are chilly in the forest. They take enough food and water to last them for a few days, a petroleum lamp and a few of the beeswax candles Mrs. Hudson uses for the schoolroom. John feels bad for stealing and vows to replace them as soon as he can, but Sherlock, as usual, shrugs it off as a necessity, and in his view, fretting over necessities is a waste of time. John admits he’s got a point, but stealing from old ladies who feed, clothe and shelter you will never be on John’s list of acceptable behaviour in general.

John also takes one of their fire irons. It might not be much of a weapon, but he’s a skinny twelve-year-old, so he still feels better with its weight in his hand. 

They wait for the weekend and tell Mrs. Hudson they’re going fishing and won’t be back until Sunday evening. This gives them two days to watch the Gate. 

“What if nothing happens?” John asks s as they walk out of the city and follow the now familiar route to the forest. 

“Then we do it again until something happens, or until we’re sure nothing’s going to happen,” Sherlock answers without hesitation. 

John grabs Sherlock’s arm and forces him to stop, to turn around and look at John. “Sherlock, what do we do if we’re really stuck here? You know, for good?”

Sherlock shakes off John’s grip, clearly irritated. “That won’t happen. I’ll get us home.” 

John just nods and lets Sherlock go ahead into the forest. Not for the first time, he wishes he was even half as sure. 

*-*

When they get to the clearing, they spread their blankets behind a thicket of bushes that hides them effectively from view, and settle down to wait. They both brought books, and they frequently change shifts so one of them is watching the clearing while the other one reads. 

Nothing happens. They see a glorious stag and a few rabbits, a fox and two badgers, but other than that, nothing happens. A few birds come begging for crumbs from their lunch, and John hides a smile when Sherlock tries to lure them in to sit on his hands to pick the crumbs from his palm.

It’s slowly getting dark, and still nothing is happening, and Sherlock is getting restless. 

“I'll just go a little closer and have a look,” he says, getting up from their makeshift camp. 

“All right, but be careful.” John closes his book and gets up as well. 

“Stay here.” Sherlock nods at a nearby tree, and John hides himself behind it.

Sherlock takes a few steps towards the clearing and then he steps onto a stone and there's a loud clicking, and then the world explodes.

Fire, panicked animals, shrapnel everywhere. The blast throws John down to the ground like a rag doll and he feels the air forced out of his lungs by the impact. Coughing, holding his ribs he sits up. “Sherlock!” he yells.

No answer. 

“Bollocks,” he mutters, gets up onto his knees and starts groping around the ground for his friend.

Finally, he finds a leg, and thankfully attached to it the rest of Sherlock. He’s unconscious, and there’s a piece of wood lodged in his shoulder. He’s bleeding.

“Bollocks,” John mutters again and tries not to panic. He does the only thing he can think of, pulling the piece of wood out of his shoulder. The wound bleeds heavier, and he takes off his jacket, wadding it together to stem the bleeding. He's pretty sure he read somewhere that that's what you're supposed to do. “Sherlock!” he yells, trying to shake Sherlock awake, but he doesn’t move.

He needs to get help.

It occurs to him that it’s dark, the smoke makes it almost impossible to see, and he’ll never be able to transport his unconscious friend anywhere.

And suddenly, that’s not his biggest problem. Because suddenly, he realises they’re surrounded. 

They arrived so quietly he didn’t notice them until they stepped out from behind the trees or flew down from the branches above his head. There’s about twenty of them, and they’re armed with bows and arrows, nasty-looking spears and curved throwing knives. 

“I thought I said not to come back here,” one of the Fey’a says in an oddly accented English.

Even through the darkness, John recognises her as the Fey’a who led him and Sherlock out of the woods on the day they came here. “Lya?”

Lya smiles at him humourlessly and nods a greeting. “John Watson.” She gestures back at the blaze. “What happened?

John stares at her. “The clearing exploded.”

“Was anyone here beside you?” Lya asks, glaring at him angrily.

John lifts his shoulders a little in a helpless gesture. “No, we were alone. Sherlock stepped on a stone, and then the clearing exploded.”

The Fey’a exchange glances. “Who let you through, and why did they do it?” Lya asks, pointing her wicked-looking spear at John. “Tell the truth,” she spits.

“Nobody let us through, we just passed through on our own!” John yells back, terrified and angry. “You think we chose this? You think we want to be here, all alone, away from our families? All we want is to find a way back! And now our best chance is destroyed! Believe me, if I had any idea what's happening, I'd tell you.”

Lya looks at him for a long time, then another Fey’a leans in and whispers something into her ear. Finally, she nods and lowers her spear. At a sign from her, the other Fey’a put their weapons away as well. “You make a good point, John Watson,” she says, gesturing at Sherlock on the ground. “Your friend needs medical attention. We will take you both to our home. In the morning, we will bring you to the edge of the Forest. And after that, I fervently hope I never see you again.”

*-*

The Fey’a blindfold him so he won’t find his way back to their home, which is entirely unnecessary, given that it’s dark and the air is filled with smoke. Some of the Fey’a stay behind to douse the fire, three of them lift Sherlock between them, and one takes his arm so he’ll know where he’s going.

They walk for what feels like hours, but John has lost his sense of time and direction. Once or twice, he hears Sherlock groan. He asks to stop to look after him, but the Fey’a keep walking.

When they reach their village, the Fey’a who has a hold of his arm takes off his blindfold, and John just stares. It takes him a moment to even recognise what he’s looking at. The trees in this part of the forest are all ancient and huge, and many of them have been formed into living houses, cocoons of twigs and furs and leaves. His guard manhandles him up a ladder into one of these “houses”. It’s more like a cave inside, with rough bark and thick carpets. 

“Sit,” the Fey’a in charge of him says. He puts a wooden bowl in John’s hands. “Drink.”

John drinks, and immediately wishes he hadn’t, because the world goes fuzzy, and he feels himself lose consciousness. “Where’s Sherlock?” he slurs, already sinking down on the ground. 

“Do not worry,” his guard says. “We will take care of your friend.”

*-*

When John wakes up, the sun is shining into his eyes, his head aches, his throat is dry and he feels like he played rugby and collided with the entire opposing team. 

Slowly, he sits up and tries to make sense of his surroundings. He’s lying on mossy ground under a young, slim tree right at the edge of the tree line of the Forest. In the distance he can see the smoke rising from Temera’s many fires, and the farmland that surrounds the city. It’s a lovely day, sunny and mild. 

Sherlock is lying on his back next to John, still unconscious. The long gash in his shoulder where the shrapnel hit is clean and bandaged, but he’s pale and looks an absolute mess, scrapes and bruises everywhere, clothes dirty and torn. There’s a large bruise on his forehead, and John supposes he either hit his head when the blast knocked them down or a piece of shrapnel is responsible. 

John looks down at himself and notices he’s not much better off. He’s covered in scrapes and bruises, his clothing is filthy and stinks of smoke.

He gets up to drink some water from the nearby brook.

“I thought you’d sleep all day.”

John starts violently and turns around to see a Fey’a boy floating down from a tree, gossamer wings gently carrying her to the ground. The boy laughs when he leans against a tree to catch his breath. “Do not worry, if I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have waited for you to wake up.”

John rubs a hand over his face. “I know. You just startled me.”

The boy hands him a water skin and a piece of nut bread. “Eat and drink before you faint.”

He accepts the food and water gratefully, and he feels much better for it. “Thank you,” he says, then goes over to Sherlock with the water skin.

Gently, he nudges Sherlock’s uninjured shoulder. “Sherlock.”

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock blinks his eyes open and focuses on John. “What happened?” he croaks, letting John help him sit up so he can drink some water. 

“Apparently, the Gate exploded.”

Sherlock sways a little and John supports him so he’s leaning against John. He’s obviously still dizzy and John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had no idea what John just said.

The Fey’a boy is sitting on a stone, watching them. “Are you all right, then?” he asks, sounding a bit bored. “I was supposed to stay with you to see if you need any help, but if you’re fine, I have things to do.”

“I’m not sure he can walk,” John answers, gesturing at Sherlock, who’s only upright because he’s leaning against John.

“Don’t be absurd, of course I can walk,” Sherlock mutters and actually manages to get to his feet. He sways alarmingly for a few seconds, but he manages to keep upright.

“I’m off, then,” the boy says, rising into the air on his gossamer wings.

“Wait!” John cries, taking a step towards her. “Please, just for a moment.”

“What?” He sighs and turns back to them, hovering a bit over the mossy ground. “Be quick, then.”

John runs a hand through his filthy hair and breathes out heavily. “Look, we’re stranded here. We can’t get home, and nobody is helping us. Everybody says it’s impossible. Do you know how we could get home?”

“I don’t know,” the Fey’a boy says, shaking his head. He sounds genuinely sorry for them. “The Gates are thousands of years old, and we closed them all when too many humans came. You’re a little bit like ants, you know, you take over everything and you chop down the Forest to build homes and make houses. And you lure the Fey’a away from the Forest as well. None of us will open another Gate, ever again. And even if we wanted to, no Fey’a alive today knows how to do it. So we can’t get you home, John Watson, and even if we could, we wouldn’t.”

He nods at them one last time, then vanishes into the woods without another word.

“Had to try, I suppose,” John mutters, then turns around to Sherlock, who’s leaning against a tree, white as a sheet. 

John moves to his side quickly, just in time for Sherlock to vomit on his shoes. 

“This is getting better and better,” John grumbles under his breath, drawing Sherlock’s arm over his shoulders and taking much of Sherlock’s weight. 

“Come on,” he says, trying to sound soothing. “Let’s go back.”

*-*

John’s never sure how they make it back to Temera. He half carries Sherlock most of the way, and Sherlock throws up at least three more time, the last time dry-heaving over the side of the road with John rubbing his back, trying to soothe him. By the time they make it to the city gates, Sherlock is shaking like a leaf and so pale he’s practically glowing, and John can barely walk another step.

As soon as they’re in sight of the city gates, two guards come running towards them. They take one look at them and take Sherlock between them, half carrying him through the city streets. John has to run to keep up.

They stop in front of a three-storied building similar to the Magistrate’s office in style, with a sign in English and Feyara that just says “Medic”.

Inside, a Fey’a woman in her mid-twenties with long brown hair and a kind face greets them and leads them into a room with a clean bed and nothing much else in it. The guards deposit Sherlock there and leave with a nod at the woman, who’s obviously the medic.

She immediately starts checking over Sherlock’s wounds. “What happened?” she asks briskly but not unkindly.

“There was an explosion. He hit his head and got a piece of wood lodged in his shoulder. The Fey’a stitched him up and gave him something to make him sleep, well at least I think they did because that’s what they did with me, but I think he has a concussion, because he was dizzy and threw up several times,” John explains, sitting down on the other side of the bed from the doctor.

“He definitely has a concussion,” the doctor agrees. “What’s his name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock,” the doctor says, turning his head so he’s looking at her out of bleary eyes. “Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital?” he asks, and John is relieved, because he mostly sounds extremely tired.

“Yes, very good. Can you tell me what day it is?”

“Sunday, why are you asking stupid questions?”

John smiles, incredibly relieved. If Sherlock is back to insulting people, it can’t be that bad.

The doctor is holding a candle in front of his eyes now and asking him to follow the light. Sherlock manages to roll his eyes but he complies, and the doctor appears satisfied. 

She gestures at John. “Help me get his shirt off, please.”

John does as she says, helping her lift Sherlock to undress him. Sherlock starts retching again the minute he’s upright, and John quickly grabs a bucket from under the bed for Sherlock to dry-heave into it. He looks absolutely miserable when he’s done and John helps him lie back down again. He gently runs a hand through Sherlock’s messy, sweat-damp hair. “You can sleep in a moment, the doctor is just checking your shoulder.”

The doctor fetches needle, thread and fresh bandages and something yellowish that looks like antiseptics. “Some Fey’a medicines have funny side effects for humans, so I’m taking their ointment off, also this will heal more neatly if I stitch it up. I won’t lie, this will hurt,” she says gently to Sherlock. 

She looks up at John. “Do you want to wait outside? This isn’t going to be pretty.”

John grabs Sherlock’s hand. “No chance.”

She cocks her head to the side and looks at him appraisingly. “All right. You can make yourself useful and hold my instruments.”

*-*

Sherlock passes out after the first two stitches, which is just as well, because it makes it a lot easier for the doctor to stitch up and re-bandage Sherlock’s wound. 

John helps her as much as he can, holding her instruments and passing her the things she asks for, and when they’re done, she smiles at him. “Well done.”

He smiles back weakly. “Thanks.”

She gestures at the door. “Go wash up, you look like you need it.”

He nods and detaches his hand from Sherlock’s, who’s still holding onto him even in his sleep.

When he emerges from the little washroom down the hall, he can finally take in his surroundings. The hallway is dark but clean and several doors lead into sick rooms very much like the one Sherlock is currently sound asleep in. He opens several doors before he pokes his head into the doctor’s small office. She smiles at him and points to a chair. As John opens the door more fully, he realises the doctor isn’t alone. 

“Care to tell me what in the name of the Great Mother happened to you two?” Magistrate Lestrade asks from the chair next to the one the doctor pointed to.

Wearily, John walks in and sits down. The doctor hands him a steaming mug and a slice of still warm buttered bread. “Oh, thank you,” he breathes and for a moment, the two adults watch him in silence as he eats and drinks. 

“Now,” Mr. Lestrade says when John’s finished his bread. “From the beginning, please.”

*-*

The story’s quickly told. John carefully omits any mention of Billy Wiggins’ name, or any hint of pickpocketing, but he tells Lestrade they were told the gate might not be as closed as they previously thought and how they decided to see if that was true. He tells Lestrade about the fire, the explosion and the Fey’a, and Lestrade listens without interruption or follow-up questions.

When he’s done, Lestrade looks thoughtful. “You don't know who rigged the explosives?”

John shrugs. “It was dark, and the forest is dense.”

Lestrade rubs a hand over his face. “So, you snuck into the Forest to camp next to the gate you came through which just happened to burst into flame next to you the exact time you were there.”

“Are you implying we burned it down?” John asks, incredulous.

Lestrade waves him off. “No, why would you? If anything you say is remotely true, you thought you might get home this way.” He sighs. “But I think you sprung a trap that might have been meant for you, and it might not be.”

“What do you mean?” the doctor asks. “You can’t mean somebody tried to murder two twelve-year-old boys?”

“I don’t think they wanted you two dead, but they were certainly prepared to take that risk,” Lestrade answers thoughtfully.

Lestrade gets up, and the doctor and John also rise. “Do me a favour and stay out of the Forest for now?” he asks John, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You did very well, by the way. You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

John fidgets uncomfortably. “Just did what was necessary,” he mutters, embarrassed.

Lestrade smiles. “If more people did what was necessary, maybe both this world and yours wouldn’t be in the state they’re in.” He nods at the doctor. “Molly.”

She smiles and nods back at him. “Greg. ‘till next time.”

Lestrade leaves, and John is alone with the doctor - Molly. 

John looks at her. “Can I stay with Sherlock?”

“Of course.”

*-*

It’s hours later, and John is still sitting in a chair by Sherlock’s bed, waiting for him to wake up. He’s read every newspaper he could find in the entire hospital and he’s bored out of his skull.

There’s a commotion and Mrs Hudson bursts into the room. “Oh my god, John, are you alright?” she cries, engulfing him in a hug before he can so much as say hello.

It feels nice, and John leans into it for a moment before shrugging her off. “I’m fine, really. Sherlock’s fine, too, he’s just having an odd reaction to some Fey’a medication and a concussion.”

“What were you thinking? You could have been killed!”

“We couldn’t foresee that somebody would blow up the gate,” John defends himself. “We didn’t know it would get dangerous.”

Mrs. Hudson sighs and sits down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, watching him, worry lines on her face. “I suppose you’re right.”

She busies herself smoothing over Sherlock’s bed-cover, straightening his blanket. “Odd to see him this still, isn’t it?”

John snorts humourlessly. “Yes, it is.”

Mrs Hudson hesitates for a moment, then says, “Look, I don’t know how much Mr Lestrade has told you, but maybe stay out of the Forest for now, all right?”

“He said that too. But the Fey’a helped us, Mrs Hudson, they’re not dangerous.”

“You can never tell, John,” Mrs Hudson answers, still looking at Sherlock’s pale face. “When our ancestors came here, many of the Fey’a weren’t thrilled. Some of them believe that there are too many humans here as it is. Here in the city we live relatively peacefully together, because the Fey’a who moved to the city are the ones with the least problems with humans. But the ones in the Forest, well, many of them don’t care for us at all. I wouldn't put it past some of them to ensure that the Gate was definitely closed.”

“But why wasn’t it closed?” John says, stifling a yawn with effort.

“Oh, dear, you must be so tired,” Mrs. Hudson says, waving away their discussion. “We can talk about this later. Go home and lie down for a bit, I’ll stay with Sherlock.”

John would really like to argue. But in truth he can barely keep his eyes open, he badly needs a change of clothes, and every bone in his body hurts. 

He nods to Mrs. Hudson gratefully and walks the short distance to Baker Street school. He would really like to wash first, but when he sees his bed, he just collapses on it and falls asleep immediately.

*-*

It’s early morning when he wakes up. He washes and changes, then goes downstairs to have breakfast before he rushes out of the door to see whether Sherlock’s awake.

Sherlock is awake, and he’s, for lack of a better word, cranky. 

“This is ridiculous,” he greets John when he comes in the door. “This so-called Doctor, Miss Hooper, insists I need to stay here for another day at least. I feel absolutely fine!”

“I can tell,” John says mildly, sitting down on the one chair in the room. “You’re in full-on rant mode and the sun’s barely risen. But honestly, I agree with Dr. Hooper. If you’d seen yourself yesterday, you’d tell yourself to stay in bed for another day as well.”

Sherlock scoffs. “I was perfectly fine, you were overreacting. I was just tired.”

“Sherlock, you threw up on me. Three times.”

For a moment, Sherlock looks sheepish. “Sorry.” Then he waves it away. “That was yesterday. I’m fine now.”

John can’t help but smile in relief. He’ll take ranting, pissed-off Sherlock over semi-conscious white as a sheet Sherlock any day. “Hooper is an odd name for a Fey’a doctor, don’t you think?” he asks conversationally.

Sherlock shrugs. “Her father is human. Obviously.”

John just nods, because when Sherlock puts it this way, he’s right, it’s obvious. “So Lestrade was here.”

Sherlock perks up. “What did he want?”

“Asked whether we saw who blew up the gate.”

“We obviously tripped a mechanism that caused the explosion,” Sherlock says, pinching his lips in frustration. For a moment he is silent, then he bursts out, “How did I not notice anything? I notice everything!”

So this is the source of the bad mood. Frustration. “Sherlock, it was dark. The trees and under-brush are dense.”

“Oh for God’s sake, John, stop patronising me!” Sherlock snaps. “I _failed_ , and now our best chance of getting home has been blown up!”

“I know,” John says quietly. He’s been so focused on getting Sherlock some help that he hasn’t had time to figure out how he feels about any of this. It seems pretty obvious that they’re stuck here, at least for the foreseeable future. “The thing is, though, Sherlock, even if you had noticed the explosives, whoever blew the Gate up would have done it anyway, and it would be exactly as gone as it is now. You couldn’t have stopped it.”

Sherlock snorts, but doesn’t answer. 

For a while they’re silent, Sherlock gazing out of the window, John is lost in his own thoughts. Mostly he thinks of his mother, and how he isn’t sure if she’ll be deeply distressed or also secretly a bit relieved when he fails to come back. His life as he knew it is over anyway, school and home and his family all gone up in smoke. So what difference does it make, really, where he’s adrift and alone? 

“So what now?” John finally asks. 

Sherlock turns his head to look at John, his eyes razor-sharp and hard. His voice is hard, too, and angry, when he says,“John, you have to stop assuming that I have all the answers. I’m a genius, yes, but I’m also twelve years old and stuck in a world I don’t know. I have no idea what I’m doing, all right? I’m not even a good person. And yet you follow me around like a puppy and expect me to fix everything. But I can’t. I can’t fix anything, I can’t solve this, and I can’t save you! So go away and leave me alone!” 

John’s too tired to be angry, and it’s too obvious that Sherlock’s frustrated and afraid and taking it out on him, but he decides to leave Sherlock to it for now. He gets up without answering, only turning around at the door. “You are a good person. Even if you can’t fix this.”

Sherlock scoffs and turns his head away again, ignoring John, to stare out of the window.

“Fine, be like that. I’ll be back later,” John sighs and leaves Sherlock alone. 

Outside, Molly Hooper is leaning against the wall. She’s apparently here to check on Sherlock, but John shakes his head at her. She nods and gestures for him to follow her. Now that Sherlock has pointed it out, he notices she’s a little taller than the other Fey’a he’s met. 

In her office, Molly offers him a seat and a cup of tea. John gratefully takes both.

“How is he?” she asks, fidgeting a little with her teacup. “He’s an odd one, your friend.”

John shrugs. “He says he’s fine, but he’d say that if his arm was falling off, so who knows.” 

Molly looks at him speculatively. “Look, I didn’t really invite you in to talk about Sherlock.” 

She fidgets a little with her hair and tries to smile, but she looks insecure about it. “Yesterday, when you helped me take care of Sherlock, I noticed something. You’re good at this. You didn’t flinch or look faint, even though there was blood and pain and vomit. You’ve got a pair of steady hands and a good head on your shoulders. So I wanted to make you an offer.”

Stunned, John looks at her, speechless. Finally, he clears his throat and croaks out, “An offer?”

“You’re a little too young to be an apprentice Medic, but you’re done with school in a year, and you could start then. And in the meantime, if you want, we always need people who help out at the hospital.”

John’s still stunned. Him, a healer? A doctor? 

Molly smiles at him, probably guessing that he doesn’t know what to say, so she elaborates. “Look, we’re a small community, and Medic is a tough job. There’s few who are cut out for it. Most people get queasy or uncomfortable, but you didn’t blink yesterday. I haven’t seen promise like this in years. So here’s my offer: Until you start your apprenticeship, you’ll clean the rooms and the surgery itself, assist me or one of the other doctors with simple procedures, do paperwork. Once you’re an apprentice, you’ll do all of this, plus you’ll learn the trade of Medic. If we have money left at the end of the month, we’ll pay you a little for the cleaning and the helping out. Once you’re an apprentice, you’ll be on salary, but the position comes without room and board.” 

John nods, indicating that he’s understood. He still has no idea what to say. 

“Think about it,” Molly says, gently. “I’ll go check on your friend.”

She leaves him alone in her office, the mug of tea in his hand still untouched.

It’s odd, he’s never thought about what he truly wanted from life. It was so obvious. School, if he’s lucky sixth form, then the Army. The life his father led, his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him. The Army is a good career for a boy of his class. A steady income, a larger purpose. Not some meaningless, boring, bland office job. And Uni was at best a luxury he can’t afford and at worst a waste of time since he doesn’t have the connections to make a career for himself afterwards. The only thing the War changed about his personal outlook is that he stopped thinking about the future completely, because if he did, all he’d see was fire and blood.

But what Molly is offering him, he realises, is an alternative. A career, a life away from the expectations and the limitations of the family and the society and the country at war he left behind. 

Is it his duty to try to return so he can die for King and Country, like he always thought was his destiny? Or is the fact that it looks like they’re stuck here his guilt-free escape?

And what about Sherlock? Will Sherlock agree to end his quest to get home, when he has so much more to lose than John? A family that cares about him, all the opportunities of wealth and privilege?

He slowly gets up and leaves Molly’s office, then walks up to Sherlock’s room to have a serious discussion about the future. 

He opens the door to Sherlock’s room, and sighs. Really, he should have seen this coming.

Sherlock is gone.

*-*

It’s two in the morning when Sherlock finally stumbles in, literally tripping over the doorstep into the room. 

John, who’s been dead asleep in spite of his worry, since he was near an explosion the day before and has more bruises than he can count, thank you very much, wakes immediately and turns up the lamp. “Where in all the blazes were you?” he snaps.

Sherlock, who looks awful, pale and tired, doesn’t answer, he just sits down on his bed wearily. 

John gets up and fetches a glass of water from the pitcher on their dresser. He hands it to Sherlock so forcefully he spills a little on Sherlock’s shoes. “Drink, for God’s sake, before you pass out.”

Sherlock drinks. His hands aren’t entirely steady. His eyes are pinched, like he’s in pain, which he probably is, given he’s got a bloody god-damned concussion.

John drags the chair over to Sherlock’s bed and sits opposite him. He glares at Sherlock, making an inviting gesture. “So, where were you, then?” 

Sherlock doesn’t even meet his gaze, he’s just staring at the floor as if it holds the answer to everything.

“Where the buggering hell were you, Sherlock?” John yells, getting up and not minding much that the chair hits the ground.

Finally, Sherlock lifts his gaze, clearly exhausted, half-starved, nauseated and irritated beyond belief. “I didn’t answer you before because it should be bloody buggering obvious where I was, to use some of your more colourful vernacular.”

John stares at him in disbelief. “The Gate? Why? For what?”

Sherlock drops his eyes again. “I lost the Lodestone.”

John rubs a hand over his face. He doesn't even know how to feel about that. “Did you find it?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. I think the Fey'a took it.”

John sighs and decides to let that rest for a moment to concentrate on the more pressing issue. “Couldn’t this have waited two days for the stitches in your arm to heal that you wouldn’t bleed through your shirt?”

“Why do you care?” Sherlock asks. “It’s my head, it’s my shoulder, it’s my blood and my shirt. Caring, John, isn't an advantage!”

John closes his eyes for a moment, trying to summon some patience. “Has it occurred to you, in your genius brain, that I’m your friend and I worry about your well-being?”

“Friends. I don’t have friends,” Sherlock bites back viciously, glaring at John.

“Well,” John says, suddenly immensely tired. The fight goes out of him in a rush. Fine, then. If the only person he has here doesn’t want him there any more, he’ll go it alone. Won’t be the first time. “I wonder why that is,” he says quietly and goes back to bed without a word. 

He falls asleep to icy silence.

*-*

“John.”

There’s something in his bed. Some _one_ in his bed. Someone distinctly Sherlock-shaped. John presses his eyes shut and pretends he’s still asleep. He doesn’t have the energy for this. It’s still dark outside, and John needs every minute of sleep he can get.

“John.”

John ignores him, shuffles more deeply under his blankets.

“I know you’re awake, your breathing patterns have changed.”

John doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn around. He thinks Sherlock deserves a little silent treatment. He feels Sherlock shift a little against his back. 

John smirks humourlessly. _I’m not going to make this any easier on you,_ he thinks. 

Finally, Sherlock sighs into the darkness. “I meant what I said, you know.”

“If this is supposed to be an apology, you’re making a mess of it,” John points out, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Sherlock woke him up for this?

“No, no, _listen_. I was homeschooled until I was nine, John. And I’ve been reliably informed that I’m an obnoxious, irritating know-it-all. I don’t _have_ friends.” Sherlock pauses, then says softly, “I just have one.”

For a moment, John is silent, considering. He knows for a fact that Sherlock is an obnoxious, irritating know-it-all, but he’s also the boy who tracked down a pickpocket for John and talked him down from an embarrassing panic attack. With Sherlock, John knows he’s always going to have to take the good with the bad. Fortunately, the good is worth the bad. “All right,” he says, accepting the unspoken apology.

If they weren’t lying as closely together, John would miss the subtle relaxation in Sherlock’s posture, the almost inaudible sigh of relief. John smiles into the darkness. 

He turns to his back, looking up at the high-beamed rafters of their attic bedroom. For a moment, they’re both quiet. Then John asks, “Caring isn't an advantage? Who told you that?”

Sherlock is quiet for so long that John's sure he won't answer. When the answer comes it's so quiet John barely hears. “My father.”

“Why?”

He can feel Sherlock shrug against him. “My little sister died when she was five. It almost broke my parents. Especially my mother. Since then my father always told us not to care about anyone but family. You can't help caring for family. But anyone else...” Sherlock swallows audibly. “Caring makes you weak. Caring _hurts_.”

John closes his eyes against the suddenness of the grief that wells up inside of him. He remembers a telegram and the certainty that the person you love most in the world will never, ever return. In the darkness, he reaches for Sherlock's hand and swallows around the lump in his throat. “You're the closest thing I've got to family here. So it seems I can't help caring about you.”

He hears the smile in Sherlock's voice when he whispers, “Likewise.”

For a few moments they're quiet again. Then John remembers that he has something to tell Sherlock. “Dr. Hooper offered me an apprenticeship at the clinic.”

Sherlock says, tone carefully neutral, “And you want to take it?” 

John sighs. “I don’t know. On one hand, we should try to return home. Our families will be worried sick. On the other hand, our chances of making it back are slim at best, and in the meantime, we can’t just wait around and do nothing.”

Sherlock shifts so he’s facing John. “Do you want to become an apprentice medic?”

John shrugs, carefully not looking at Sherlock. “I never really thought about what I want.”

Sherlock nudges him with a shoulder. “Maybe it’s time to start.”

John smiles into the darkness. “What about you? What do you want?”

There’s a long silence, and then Sherlock says, quietly, “I only ever thought about what I don’t want. I don’t want Whitehall, I don’t want an office and a club and meetings and parties.”

John smiles at the way Sherlock says _office_ and _club_ , like others would say _slugs_ , a deep-seated, shuddering disgust. “What else, then? University?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Maybe. Chemistry, maybe. Or physics. Mathematics. Maybe all three. And I always dreamed of being able to travel. Paris, Rome, New York, Egypt, you know, a grand tour.”

John wonders briefly what it must be like to be Sherlock, to be relatively rich and well-connected and so brilliant that anything you want is not only materially possible, but one hundred percent achievable. And he also wonders if Sherlock will ever be happy here, in this small world where none of what he just said is possible. 

“You know what I miss?” he says into the darkness, trying to lighten the mood.

“What?”

“Chips.” John grins. “There’s no bloody potatoes here.”

“Oh. Chips.” Sherlock sighs. He pauses, then adds, “I miss record players.”

“Radio.”

“Proper tea!”

“Strawberries.”

“Have you ever had pizza?”

“Oh, God, yes.” John sighs. “You think we could make some?”

“No tomatoes, John, remember?” 

“Right.”

They’re both silent for a while. Then John says, “We’ll keep looking.”

John can feel Sherlock nod against his shoulder. Then he says, “I think you should take the apprenticeship. Just in case.”

John nods into the darkness. “All right. Just in case.”


	4. Chapter 4

The week of John’s sixteenth birthday dawns with a bad outbreak of Spring Fever. Monday he works a sixteen-hour shift at the clinic, even though pretty much all he can do is give people doses of Feverweed and tell them to stay in bed. They admit some of the worst cases, but even at the clinic, they can’t do much more, except make sure the patients stay hydrated.

Tuesday they run out of Feverweed, so he goes down to the basement, which houses the clinic's morgue, Molly's office and the clinic pharmacy.

John enters without knocking and helps himself to some of the grain coffee Molly always brews first thing in the morning. By mid-day, it’s usually almost gelatinous, but if you add a little water, it’s a damn sight better than nothing. 

“Morning,” Molly greets him. “Did Dr. Sholto send you to get me?” she asks nervously. Molly hates days like this, when there’s so many people and they can’t really help all that much.

“No, just here to fetch some Feverweed,” John says, passing through into the store room, where Sherlock’s sitting at the long table he’s commandeered for his chemical equipment, studying something through the microscope he built last year. The store room is the no-man's land between the morgue and the pharmacy, and since Sherlock helps out in both, this in-between space has become his. 

“And where were you all night?” John asks by way of greeting.

Sherlock only grunts, bending further over his microscope. John sighs. “So, here, then?”

Sherlock looks up and gives him the patented _Obviously, idiot,_ glare.

John puts his hands up in a disclaiming gesture. “Okay, I’ll leave you to it. I’m just here to get-”

“Feverweed, yes, I heard, and I’m not completely stupid.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. He reaches behind him for a vial with a greenish powder. “Try this on one of the sicker ones, you know, one of the ones you think might die.”

“Sherlock, for the millionth time, I’m not using my patients as guinea pigs!” John protests, but he takes the vial from Sherlock. “What is this, anyway?”

“Acetylsalicylic acid, pretty much,” Sherlock says. He sighs when John isn’t immediately enlightened. “It’s more potent Feverweed,” he explains in his _I hate humans, how do you even breathe through your idiocy_ voice. “Dissolve a tablespoon of this in some hot water, repeat every eight hours.”

John looks sceptically at the greenish powder. “Have you tested this?”

“Mice.” Sherlock motions to a cage full of tiny brown field mice. “They didn’t die.”

“That’s very reassuring,” John says, sarcasm heavy in his voice. But he knows, and Sherlock knows, that John will try, because there’s a few people up there who are likely to die otherwise. 

“I also took some myself,” Sherlock adds, attention already back to his microscope. 

“Sherlock!” John admonishes, shocked but not surprised. Sherlock's done this twice before. 

“I gave it to the mice first!” Sherlock defends himself, rolling his eyes. 

Listra, the pharmacist, walks in from the store room. “What did you do to my mice?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at Sherlock, her wings snapping up, a clear sign of irritation. She’s tiny, but everybody is afraid of her, even Sherlock.

“Nothing, they’re completely fine,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. 

“If you poison my mice again, I’ll skin you and sell your hide on the marketplace.”

“You’re overreacting. It was one mouse, and I didn’t poison it, it escaped from its cage and ate my experiment! But never mind the mouse, do you want me to show you how I made the more potent Feverweed?”

Listra’s eyes light up with interest, and she all but shoves John aside and leans over Sherlock’s workspace. 

John bites back a smile at her eagerness to see what Sherlock has done. He starts explaining it to her, and John immediately zones out because they’re speaking a mixture of English, Feyara, and Chemistry, and John’s not exactly fluent in two out of the three. 

The door chime of the pharmacy rings, and Listra leaves with a ruffle through Sherlock’s hair and an admonition to leave her mice alone. John is about to tease him about the mice some more when Molly calls from the next room. “Sherlock!” 

Sherlock grins. “New corpse?” he calls back. 

“Try for a little less cheer, maybe?” John says, wincing at Sherlock’s cheerful tone.

“They’re just as dead if I don’t enjoy my work,” Sherlock answers. “Really, how many times do we have to have this argument?”

John sighs and drinks his grain coffee in silence, watching Sherlock as he walks out. He’s a head taller than John by now, and John considers it unfair that somebody who eats rarely and sleeps even less, who takes no care of himself, should grow like a weed, and John, who eats and sleeps and plays football and rugby, should stay resolutely short. He listens to Sherlock and Molly bicker in the next room - apparently there’s no fresh corpse - while he enjoys the last moments of quiet he’ll likely get today. 

He likes it down here. Sherlock’s workspace is chaotic and messy, but he’s made the space his own, remarkably so, given he has no official position at the clinic. In the beginning, he sort of skulked around when he was waiting for John to finish his work. Then, one day, he correctly deduced the cause of death of a young man the Watch brought in. Molly was impressed, and she started involving Sherlock in her work. Then Listra discovered that Sherlock has not only a knack for chemistry, but a love for it that borders on the obsessive, and since then he's been a sort of unofficial mortuary assistant/apprentice pharmacist. Both Molly and Listra pay him when it's possible, but since he works only on things that interest him and pursues his own projects for the rest of the time, it works out pretty well for all involved. Dr. Sholto, the head of the clinic, accepts the situation as long as they keep Sherlock away from the patients (there was an incident with an enraged father-to-be and a cheating wife that escalated fairly quickly). But since Sherlock generally has little interest in people, unless they’re dead or involved in some kind of puzzle, that's not a problem.

Sherlock stomps back into the room, apparently highly incensed at the lack of a corpse. “This is so very tedious,” he mutters. “Nothing ever happens in this godforsaken city.”

“I have a hospital full of sick people,” John says mildly. 

“Boring.” Sherlock dismisses John’s patients with a wave of his hand. “Want to come with me to visit Wiggins?”

John grimaces. “I’d love to, but, you know, hospital, sick people, like I just mentioned?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” He gets up and whirls into his coat. “Molly, I’m leaving,” he yells at the front of the room. “See you later, John. Try the medicine I gave you and record the results.”

With that, he’s gone out the back door, and John makes his way up to the ground floor to face the day, a little envious of Sherlock. It’s a lovely day, and John would like nothing more than to roam the streets looking for adventure, but duty calls, and John follows.

*-*

John cracks his neck from side to side and yawns. He’s almost asleep on his feet. It’s Thursday, and it’s been a rough few days. He came down to the basement for some of Molly’s grain coffee, and saw Sherlock sitting bent over his microscope. So he sat down in the only other chair in the room, the one near the door, the one John always sits in when he waits for Sherlock to be done so they can go home. He leans his head back against the wall and enjoys the quiet for a few moments. 

Sherlock looks up from the microscope and examines John critically. “Go home, before you fall down.”

John shrugs. “I’m not off for another two hours.”

“And what are you doing down here again?”

John grins tiredly. “Came for the coffee. Stayed for the charm.”

Sherlock huffs a laugh and smiles, a private little smile that tugs at John’s lips for an answer. For a moment, they look at each other, and John feels suffused with warmth and a deep sense of contentment. 

Then Sherlock looks down at his notes again and clears his throat. “How is it up there?”

“Not as bad as it could be.” 

“How’s the acetylsalicylic acid working?” Sherlock asks. “Did you make notes?”

“Yes, I did. Dr. Sholto was sceptical about trying it out, but he let the patients make the choice in the end, and we had a few that were willing. They’re all on the mend, and now he’s trying it out himself.”

“Side effects?” Sherlock asks, pen poised over his messy notebook.

John shrugs. “One of them said her stomach hurt. One had a funny little rash, but that could’ve been the fever, both times.”

“We need a bigger sample size,” Sherlock mutters, noting down the data.

“We’ll get one,” John says, gesturing at the building surrounding them. “This won’t be the last Spring Fever epidemic.”

Sherlock just grunts and notes down a few thoughts. John thinks about getting to his feet, then decides against it. He closes his eyes, just for a few seconds…

He starts awake and almost falls from his chair when somebody calls, “Sherlock?” from the morgue.

It’s Sarah, one of the other apprentices at the clinic. She’s a year older than him and very nice. She’s also blonde and pretty and smart, and curvy in all the right places in ways that John can’t help but notice. She’s also sharp as tack and John has a hard time keeping up with her academically, and he finds that even more attractive. He’s been thinking about asking her to go for a drink, his rugby mates have been ribbing him about his lack of a social life, and he thinks they might have a point. Between studying to become a medic and the equally consuming time he spends exploring the city and tracking down puzzles with Sherlock, he just hasn't had the time to think about girls. Maybe he should make time. 

He gets up from his chair and straightens his unruly hair a little. Sherlock snorts, clearly amused, and John shoots him a _shut up_ look.

“Back here,” John calls and Sarah wanders between the autopsy table and comes into Sherlock’s little laboratory. 

She greets John with a cordial smile. “Oh, good, there you are. Dr. Sholto was looking for you.”

She turns to Sherlock, and her smile noticeably dims. “Dr. Sholto asks if you’ve got some more of the stronger Feverweed.”

Sherlock hands her a vial full of the greenish powder. “I’ll make more, if you like.”

“Yes, please, it seems to work very well,” she says, and her smile grows more genuine. “Thank you, Sherlock, you’re doing good work here.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, he’s clearly dismissed Sarah from his notice, and turns back to his microscope.

Clearly uncomfortable, Sarah turns to John. “Ready to go back to work?”

She puts her hand on John’s arm, and John feels a small thrill. “Yep,” he says. “Lead on.”

He turns back to Sherlock, who’s looked up from his microscope and is staring at them, frowning. “See you later at home?”

Sherlock nods briefly, but doesn’t answer, which is relatively usual for him. He’s glaring at Sarah’s hand on John’s arm, and for once John isn’t sure he wants to hear Sherlock’s deductions. 

*-*

John’s birthday is on his day off, but he spends most of it in the clinic. A building collapsed and ten people have been injured, and one person killed. He’s busy bandaging wounds, and assisting Dr. Sholto with an amputation until six that evening. When he's finally done, he’s exhausted, sweaty and feels sixty, not sixteen. 

The light in the basement lab is on, so he goes down to see what Sherlock's still doing here.

The dead woman they pulled from the wreckage is lying on the autopsy table, and Sherlock's seated in his makeshift lab. It's obvious from the state of the corpse that she's been dead for at least two days. 

“What's going on with her?” John asks as he enters Sherlock's lab. “I thought she died when the building collapsed.”

Sherlock grins at John gleefully. “She was murdered, John. An honest to god murder! And we don't know how yet!”

John shakes his head fondly at Sherlock's barely contained excitement. “Just try not to grin too obviously when the Watch comes in, all right? When's the autopsy?”

Sherlock gestures to the clinic upstairs. “As soon as Molly is done assisting Dr. Sholto. Apparently living patients are a priority.” 

“How inconsiderate of Molly,” John says with a grin to let Sherlock know he's joking. 

Sherlock snorts and looks at him fondly. “You look shattered. Go home.”

“I'm going to the Gladstone for a birthday drink,” John points out. “Seeing as it's, you know, my birthday.”

“I am aware,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. He reaches under the table and holds something out to John. It's a small cake, and there's even a candle on top.

John stares at the little cake, stunned speechless. This is the first time Sherlock's even acknowledged his birthday.

“Sherlock...” John starts, but words fail him as he meets Sherlock's eyes. For a moment, they just look at each other, and John feels that thing again, the feeling he first had when he was twelve. When he has Sherlock's undivided attention, he feels _seen_ , and alive, and curiously taller. 

The moment breaks when Sherlock looks down, blushing ever so slightly, obviously embarrassed. “It's just a cake, John.”

John grins and grabs it. “And you're eating it with me. Right now.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, and he doesn't even offer up a token resistance. 

So they eat the cake, and John blows out his candle, and Sherlock says, “Happy Birthday,” while looking at John like he's the only person in the world worth talking to, and John actually feels a lump in his throat, because Sherlock's the only person John would want to be with right now. In any world.

*-*

John leaves when Molly comes downstairs and the autopsy starts, and he briefly thinks of going home and going to bed, but he promised his rugby mates a birthday drink, and he also mentioned to Sarah that he might be there, so he goes, even though he's not especially in the mood. Half his rugby team is there, plus two or three of the nursing staff and the other apprentice from the clinic, and everybody wants to buy him pints of cider, but he only gets a half-pint because otherwise he'll fall asleep standing up. 

Half an hour into the evening he's so tired he can barely follow the conversation, and is actually about to leave when somebody taps him on the shoulder. 

He turns around and sees Sarah, looking a bit sheepish when his friends fall silent and nudge each other. “Happy birthday,” she says, smiling at John a little shyly. 

“Want to get a drink?” John asks. He points at a table a little away from his mates. “Over there?”

Sarah smiles, relieved. “Absolutely.”

Sarah orders a pint of cider and they sit down at the table John indicated. John’s nervous, and he hopes Sarah can’t tell. They’ve got a lot to talk about, thankfully, because the clinic is a never ending source of conversation material. He never thought he’d talk about a leg amputation on his first ever drink out with a girl, but Sarah’s fascinated and asks detailed questions, and this is the exact reason John likes her. They talk about ether and what a blessing it is, and John mentions Sherlock’s and Listra’s experiments with producing Penicillin for intravenous use out of the fungus used in traditional Fey’a medicine. 

Sarah listens with interest, then takes a sip of her cider. “I just have to ask,” she says, smiling to let him know she’s joking. “How is he to live with?”

John grins. “I’m never bored.”

“I suppose that's a good thing?” Sarah asks.

“Definitely.” John pauses, but he feels the need to make sure Sarah understands. “Seriously, though, it was so hard when we first came here. We only had each other. Still do, really.”

Sarah puts a hand on his arm. “You’ve got people who care about you here, John,” she says, smiling at him warmly.

He smiles back. “I know. Dr. Sholto, Molly, Mrs Hudson, they’ve all been more than kind to us. They've done everything to make us feel at home.”

“Would you go back if you had the chance?” Sarah asks.

He tries to consider her question seriously. Truth is, he doesn’t know what he’d do if the opportunity suddenly presented itself, and he hasn’t thought about it in at least a year. He and Sherlock made a pact to keep looking for a way home, but life has swept them up lately, and they’ve both been so busy with their lives here that returning home has become something of a childhood dream, still taken out and regarded fondly occasionally, but slowly dimming in the harsh light of growing up. He also has the feeling the answer might be different for him than it is for Sherlock. He smiles at her a little sadly and shakes his head. “I don’t even know. It feels like we should, but… I don’t know. Every day we’re here this place feels more real, and the world we left is like a story I read in a book somewhere. They probably think we’re dead by now anyway.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Sarah squeezes his arm in sympathy and lets her hand linger.

John feels warm all over, maybe from the cider (he doesn’t usually drink) or the company, or the way she’s touching him. “Yes, let’s talk a bit more about that amputation, that was much more fun.”

Sarah laughs, and on an impulse, John leans over and gives her a peck on the cheek. She turns to him and smiles, bright and lovely, and John feels like he’s glowing from the inside out. 

He leans in again, and she meets him halfway. This time it’s a proper kiss. Her lips are dry and a little chapped. She smells like something flowery and the lye soap from the clinic. It’s nice.

Somebody clears his throat. Sarah and John break apart, and John looks up to see Sherlock standing there, looking uncharacteristically lost, an unreadable expression on his face. 

John frowns at him. “Everything all right?”

Sherlock seems frozen, staring at Sarah's hand on John's arm, and then at John, and there's an uncomfortable edge to his gaze that John isn't used to. Normally he enjoys the attention, now he feels a curious urge to squirm. 

“What is it?” he asks again, because Sherlock hates pubs, and having drinks with mates, and he doesn't even usually acknowledge birthdays. 

Sherlock swallows and visibly shakes himself out of whatever he was hung up on. “You need to come with me. There's something you need to see.” 

John's blood goes cold. There's something in the tone of Sherlock's voice he hasn't heard in a long time. “All right. Let's go.”

*-*

After a quick goodbye and apology to Sarah, John follows Sherlock out of the pub. It doesn't surprise him when Sherlock leads him towards the clinic. What does surprise him is Sherlock's uncharacteristic silence. He asks Sherlock several times to tell him what's going on, but Sherlock only answers that John needs to see for himself.

It takes under ten minutes to get to the clinic, and Sherlock leads them through the back door right into the basement morgue. 

The woman is lying on the autopsy table, already wrapped up for burial, except her head.

“Did you identify what killed her?” John asks, rounding the table to take a closer look at her face. She's young, early twenties, and it's clear even now that she was pretty in life. 

“Yes.” Sherlock gestures at his chemical equipment. “A plant-based poison similar to belladonna. Easy to obtain.”

“Did you tell the Watch?”

Sherlock nods. “A young Sergeant named Donovan. She thinks the victim took it herself, and I can’t even argue, because it’s the only theory supported by the facts,” he says, voice dripping with disdain.

“And you disagree, I take it.”

“Did you know she didn’t live in that building? Nobody who lives there even knows her. Why would she break into the cellar of a building she didn’t live in to commit suicide?”

“Hm.” John looks at the woman again. “Has anyone talked to her friends and family? Was she mentally ill, maybe?”

“The Watch haven’t identified her yet.”

“And why am I here, exactly? What aren’t you telling me?”

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, a highly uncharacteristic gesture of uncertainty. “Look into her mouth,” he says, barely audibly.

“Seriously?” John asks, but when Sherlock just gives him a look, he grabs a pair of waxed gloves and a pair of tweezers from the workspace. Slowly, gently, he pries her lips apart. Sherlock hands him a small lamp, and John holds it close to her mouth. 

He almost drops the lamp when the light reflects on the amalgam fillings in her teeth. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “How…”

“How indeed,” Sherlock agrees grimly. 

He looks up at Sherlock. “Did you tell Lestrade?”

“No,” Sherlock answers quietly. “It’s not in the report.”

“We need to find out who she is, Sherlock,” John says, hoping his voice sounds steadier than he feels. He puts the lamp down and straightens, looking down at this woman, who has dental work in her mouth that doesn’t exist on Dera, that has never existed on Dera, where dentistry is primarily done by Fey’a, who use completely different techniques and materials. “When did she get here? Where did she come from?”

“All excellent questions, which I intend to find answers to.” 

There’s a knock on the back door, and Sherlock goes to answer it. 

Billy saunters into the room with his usual swagger, but stops when he sees the corpse on the table. “Oh, no. No. I don’t want nothin’ to do with any of that,” Billy says, backing out of the room.

Sherlock puts a hand on his shoulder, both to calm him down and to restrain him. “Don’t be stupid, Billy, it’s just a dead body. It can’t hurt you. I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

Billy stops fidgeting and looks at Sherlock, a shrewdly calculating look in his eyes. “What kind of proposition?”

“We need to know who she is,” Sherlock says and holds out a few coppers for Billy to see. “Ten coppers for the first person to bring me her name and address.”

Billy glances from the corpse to Sherlock to John. John tries to look unconcerned, but by Billy’s smirk he knows he’s unsuccessful at hiding his tension.

“Twenty,” Billy answers confidently. 

“Fifteen, my last offer. There’s plenty of street kids, and I know almost all of them,” Sherlock says calmly, completely unaffected by the filthy look Billy shoots him.

“Fine,” Billy bites out. “Fifteen.” 

“All right,” Sherlock starts. “From her clothes and her hands it’s obvious that she’s a charwoman who lives near the river, so start there, and…”

Billy looks more closely at the corpse’s features, then his face splits into a grin. “Actually, Sherlock,” he interrupts, “you can pay up right now. I know her.”

*-*

“Next time we should definitely wait for Lestrade,” John whispers as Sherlock easily - too easily - picks the lock of Violet Jones’ tiny one-room flat in a tenement down by the river.

Sherlock was right, of course. She was poor, lived by the river and made her living by cleaning and taking in washing.

Sherlock dismisses any thought of Lestrade with an annoyed little wave. He was spooked before, but now he’s glowing with excitement, his eyes sharp. Sherlock’s clearly enjoying this, and if John is entirely honest with himself, he is too.

Her room is very small and nearly featureless. Her bed is neatly made, there’s a pot of porridge moulding on the stove. “No relatives?” John asks quietly. 

“If she came through the Gate, and not that long ago, that isn’t very surprising,” Sherlock observes, looking through the closet holding her few meagre possessions. He takes out a dress that looks suspiciously like a Land Girl uniform. “Further proof, not that we needed it.”

John swallows hard, taking the dress from Sherlock. He suddenly remembers the last time he saw his sister, cheek pressed against the buttons of her uniform as she hugged him tightly. “She can’t have been here long,” he says, knowing his voice isn’t entirely steady. 

Sherlock is watching him closely. “Unlikely, though remember that time passes much more slowly in our world, meaning she could theoretically have arrived before we did.”

John just nods and gently puts the dress back into the closet. “My sister’s a Land Girl. She went as soon as she was eighteen. Anything to get away from home. She was always restless....” he trails off and shakes his head as if to clear it. He’s had to put these feelings, these memories away, in order to survive. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but from the way he looks at John, it’s clear he understands perfectly.

The look through the rest of her things, a few coins, two or three books. A few toiletries. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sherlock even looks under the bed and lifts her mattress. Nothing.

“Kind of makes you think,” John says, as he puts back the possessions they disturbed. 

Sherlock, still lying on the floor beneath Violet’s bed, makes an inquiring noise.

“We were incredibly lucky to be picked up by Mrs Hudson. If we’d been older, we would’ve had to fend for ourselves, and we might have ended up in a place like this.” John makes a gesture that encompasses the tiny flat, the threadbare carpet, the small window, the absence of heat. 

“Unlikely,” Sherlock says absently, feeling around the floorboards with his long, sensitive violinist fingers. “We’re both far better educated than Violet Jones, so we would have found better paying work.”

John is about to argue - Sherlock’s privileged upbringing sometimes shows, because it never occurs to him that many people just never had his wealth of opportunities - when Sherlock suddenly, triumphantly cries, “I knew it!” and a floorboard comes loose.

Sherlock pulls out a locket, a sheaf of papers and a British identity card. The locket is clearly Violet’s, the people inside clearly her mother and father. The British identity card tells them nothing they didn’t already know or have any use for. 

When Sherlock looks at the papers, he goes still. 

“What?” John says and takes them out of Sherlock’s hands. “Oh my god…”

It’s two incident reports filed by Magistrate Lestrade, both three years ago. One about two children coming through a gate that was supposedly closed, one about a fire and an explosion in the Forest where said gate was supposedly destroyed.

“Apparently Miss Jones works as a cleaner at the Watch Headquarters,” Sherlock says, meeting John’s uneasy gaze.

“Time to go to Lestrade, I think.”

*-*

“So to summarise: You withheld vital information from the Watch and broke into a dead girl’s flat,” Lestrade says, rubbing his hand over his face. They’re sitting in his office and Lestrade and the Sergeant in charge of the case, Donovan, looking at them with matching frowns of disapproval.

John is about to argue when Sherlock says, “More or less,” with a shrug.

“What were you thinking?” Donovan asks. 

“That we saw something you apparently missed. I told you Violet Jones didn’t commit suicide,” Sherlock bites back.

“Then what else happened? You said yourself there was no evidence of violence. How did somebody force her to drink poison?”

“I don’t know yet,” Sherlock grates out grudgingly. “But I’ll find out.”

“No, you won’t,” Lestrade interrupts whatever Donovan was about to say. “You’ll both stay out of it. This is Watch business. We won’t press charges for the break-in because you gave us valuable information, but next time we won’t be so lenient. Understood?”

Sherlock is about to argue, but John shuts him up with a look and a quick, “Yes, sir. of course.” 

Lestrade looks from Sherlock to John, fixing them both with his most forbidding glare. “I mean it. I know you think the Gate has reopened, but it was destroyed. You saw that with your own eyes. And even the Fey'a don't know how to open a new one.”

“Right,” Donovan agrees. “Violet Jones probably stumbled out of the Gate a few years ago, stole the files from the Watch because it interested her, and committed suicide because she felt guilty.”

Sherlock glares at both of them. “I never had a high opinion of police intelligence, and you, Sergeant Donovan, unfortunately, confirm my worst fears. Miss Jones was clearly murdered after somebody hired her to steal that report.”

“Can you prove it?” Donovan challenges, and Sherlock just glares. She glares right back.

“Enough!” Lestrade doesn’t yell, but it’s a close thing. He points at Sherlock and John. “Out, both of you. And I don’t want to see you near this case again!”

John all but drags Sherlock out of Lestrade’s office and into the street. Sherlock is muttering under his breath about how it’s a wonder Lestrade or Donovan manage to get dressed in the morning. 

By the time they reach Baker Street, Sherlock is seething quietly. He immediately gets out his violin and starts to play. 

These are the moments John is insanely grateful for that violin. It's a second-hand, dilapidated old instrument, but it was the best John could afford at the time. He'll never forget the pole-axed look Sherlock gave him when John presented it to him, and he still feels smug about surprising Sherlock Holmes.

But that's not the reason John loves that violin almost as much as Sherlock does. It’s not even that Sherlock plays beautifully, even though he does. John doesn’t care much for music, but he recognises the level of skill it takes to coax such lovely sounds from this dilapidated instrument. It’s the change that comes over Sherlock the moment the bow touches the strings. It’s like something strung to breaking point has been unwound. He’s completely absorbed, and yet entirely at peace. Thoughtful yet quiet. Raptly focused, yet relaxed. Happiness radiates from him every time he plays, and John knew then and knows now that Sherlock needs this and didn’t know how to ask for it.

John lies down on the bed and tries very, very hard not to think about what it would mean if the Gate was actually open. They could go home. Does he want that? Does Sherlock? Would he want to stay here without Sherlock?

That last one brings John up short. He looks over at Sherlock, who’s lost in his music, lost in his head, the long, thin lines of his body softly swaying to the music, subtly graceful despite his teenage lankiness. 

Sherlock notices him looking and stops playing. “I’m right,” he says. “I know I’m right. They’re idiots.”

John doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll prove it,” he says with conviction. “We’ll find Violet’s killer, we’ll find the Gate.” _And then what?_ he thinks but doesn’t say. 

Sherlock is still looking at him, his usual intensity amplified, like he wants to x-ray John’s skull. Once again, John feels a rush that’s not unlike jumping off a swing at its highest point. Sherlock Holmes’ undivided attention is oddly intoxicating, and John feels a little light-headed. “By the way,” John says, suddenly remembering. “In case I didn't say, that cake was really good.”

Sherlock just shrugs, seemingly embarrassed, like every time John thanks him or calls him friend or shows him any affection at all, dropping his eyes from John’s, and John feels released and disappointed all at once.

He starts playing again, and John falls asleep thinking of home, and where the hell that even is.

*-*

Sherlock picks John up from the clinic the next day, and they go talk to Billy.

Billy’s squatting in a run-down house by the river with a few of his friends, a band of street kids from ten to eighteen who call themselves the Irregulars. Most of them are orphans, others ran away from homes that made them wish they were orphans. 

John’s grateful for whatever instinct made Sherlock keep in contact with Billy. He taught them more about the city and the society here than anybody else. He knows the city like the back of his hand, and most of its dirty tricks and secrets. 

They enter the house through the back entrance, careful as always that nobody sees them, and find Billy in his room, making himself a cup of tea. His second-in-command, Ginger, is also there, sitting on Billy’s bed. She’s playing with one of Billy’s knives and looks bored when they enter, her wings beating lazily.

“Gents,” Billy greets them with a nod and an impudent grin.

They sit down on the crates Billy uses as chairs and Sherlock gets right down to business. “Billy, how did you know the victim?”

Billy shrugs. “Dunno, just showed up here one day. ‘S why Ginger’s here, she’s the one who picked them up. Ginger?”

Ginger shrugs, still looking bored. “Met her about a year ago, begging on the streets. She was rubbish at it, so we sort of took her in. Her and that friend of hers.”

John shares a look with Sherlock, and he knows they’re thinking the same thing. “That friend have a name?"

*-*

“Kitty Winters? May we have a moment of your time? It’s about Violet,” John greets the woman as they approach her outside her workplace, the Municipal Museum, where she works as a cleaner. She’s slight and poorly dressed and has a nervous energy about her. John guesses she’s not that much older than they are. 

“Who are you supposed to be?” she asks, eyeing them nervously. “What about Vi?”

“Sherlock Holmes, John Watson,” Sherlock says, pointing first at himself and then at John. “We’re looking into your friend’s death.”

“You?” She gestures at the two of them. “You’re children.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her. “Dorset, I’d say, but your mother’s from Ireland. Your parents, who are both dead, owned a potato farm. You lived in an orphanage until you joined the Land Girls, where you met Violet. You’re short-sighted, but your glasses broke, probably when you came through the Gate.”

Kitty stares at him in open-mouthed shock. “How did you…”

Sherlock gives her a grim, humourless smile. “In answer to your first point, Miss Winters, yes, we’re sixteen, but we’re also the only people who will believe you. So if you’re at all interested in seeing your friend’s killer brought to justice, I suggest you talk to us.”

If anything, Kitty looks even more terrified than before. 

John steps closer to her and holds up his hands so she can see he isn’t about to touch her. “Kitty,” he says, gently, quietly. “I’m John. I was born in North London in 1929. Sherlock and I came here over three years ago.”

“Then you know,” she whispers, gazing at them wide-eyed. “What else can I tell you? They must’ve brought you here, too.”

“We came by accident,” John says. “Who brought you here? And can you help us figure out who killed Violet, and why?”

She looks around her furtively. “Not here. Come on.”

*-*

Her one-room bedsit is two floors up from Violet’s. Sherlock and John make themselves comfortable on the bed while Kitty busies herself making tea. She hands a mug to each of them, then sits down in the room’s only chair and gazes into her own mug.

“I don’t know where to start,” she says, barely audible.

“At the beginning,” Sherlock says, and John glares at him. Sherlock rolls his eyes and adds, in a softer tone, “I suspect you ran away from your posting because the farmer you were stationed with made unwanted advances toward you, correct?”

Startled, Kitty nods. “How did you know?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but John interrupts, “That’s not important right now, is it? How did you get here?”

“We ran away,” Kitty says, gazing at the floor, lost in the memory. “He… was always touching, teasing, but that night, he got… he got violent. And I… grabbed one of the fire irons…” She trails off, wiping a tear away. Then she visibly steels herself to go on. “We didn’t stay to check whether he was still alive. We just ran into the woods. We took all the money and the ration books we could find and ran.”

“And then what happened?” Sherlock presses her to continue. 

“We spent the night in the woods, and the next day we were trying to figure out what to do when we realised we weren’t alone in the woods. There were men, and they were doing something to that stone circle, you know the one.Well, they caught us watching, and they made us tell them what happened. And then one of them just sort of… laughed at us.” She shudders. “Told us he’d help us disappear.”

“How?” Sherlock asks.

“That’s what we said. How? He explained about this place, and how he’d get us here. We didn’t believe him, of course. But we were desperate, and he said he’d help us.”

“What did he ask for in return?” 

Kitty looks down at her hands. “We said we didn’t have any money, but he told us he’d collect on the other side. We thought he meant…” she makes a vague gesture at her body, “You know. But he didn’t touch either of us. He just led us through and showed us the way to the city. And then he left us. We thought he’d never come back, we thought he might’ve been a Good Samaritan, but then about three months ago, he suddenly appeared again. He got Vi that cleaning job at the Watch headquarters. He got me the job at the museum.”

“Did he ask either of you to do anything for him?” John asks the next obvious question, earning an approving look from Sherlock.

“Not me,” Kitty says. “I don’t know about Vi. Last time I saw her was about a month ago, and she didn’t say anything.” She looks up, blushing a bit. “I hadn’t had much time for her lately, I’ve been seeing someone.” Her eyes fill with tears. “I should have made time,” she whispers.

John winces at her obvious pain. He would like to say something comforting, but there really isn’t anything that will make her feel better. Her friend is dead. 

“When exactly did you come here?” Sherlock asks.

“About a year ago?”

“And where were you stationed?” Sherlock asks, even though the answer seems obvious.

“Devonshire, near Exeter.”

“Does Musgrave Manor mean anything to you?” John asks. 

Kitty nods, smiling. “Of course. Mrs Higgins, the housekeeper always gave us Land Girls treats on Sundays after church.”

John curses quietly under his breath. 

“What did they do to the stones?” Sherlock asks, low and intent.

Kitty shrugs. “I don't know. They were setting up some kind of contraption. They used a very big rock, looked a bit like a Fey'a crystal.”

“That must be how they re-opened the Gate,” John mutters to Sherlock, and Sherlock nods absently. 

“Kitty,” Sherlock says, very serious and very quiet. “Can you describe the man you made the deal with?”

Kitty shrugs. “Seemed Irish. Brown hair. About your height.” She gestures at John. “Goes by Moran.”

*-*

John is numb. He feels a bit like he’s been out in the cold for a while, like he can’t feel his fingers and toes.

Sherlock is silent next to him. They’ve been walking along the river for what seems like a long time. It’s a mild day, and the sky is slowly taking on the reds and oranges of a magnificent sunset.

Neither of them has said a word since they left Kitty’s flat. They told her to be in touch if anybody threatens her or wants her to do something. John isn’t sure what they’ll do with the information, but maybe they can help Kitty somehow. 

By mutual if silent consent, they’ve been walking aimlessly around the city, and now along the river. The enormity of Kitty’s revelations hasn’t even begun to register, and John feels utterly unequipped to deal with any of it.

Finally, Sherlock stops. John actually walks a few paces ahead, then realises that Sherlock is no longer with him and turns around. 

Sherlock is staring straight ahead. “Fey'a crystals... that's how the Gate is powered.”

“Apparently. How did they find one on Earth, though?” John asks. 

“They must have taken one through the Gate from this side,” Sherlock says. He looks at John intently, but John knows he's not really seeing him. “The jewelry store.... remember that robbery shortly after we got here?”

“You mean the Fey'a removed the crystal powering the Gate and somebody stole a crystal to re-open it?”

“And then the Fey'a blew it up to render the entire contraption useless.”

“But why re-open the Gate in the first place?” John wonders. “What are they doing?”

“One can only speculate, but possibly the idea occurred to them that there are plenty of people like Kitty and Violet, who'd pay a substantial amount of money to get away from a war-torn country, or an abusive employer, or the police.”

John lets his gaze wander over the city. “How many do you think are here by now?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Probably not that many. Remember, a year here is much less time on Earth.”

They look at each other in silence. Dusk is falling quickly, making it more difficult to gauge Sherlock’s expression, but John can see an obsessive gleam in his eyes that he doesn't like. 

“What now?” John asks, hating that his voice sounds so unsteady.

“Now we go look at the Gate,” Sherlock says, sounding, John’s pretty sure, more confident than he feels.

He turns and walks a few paces, but John stays where he is. 

_Go on, Watson, say it,_ he gathers his strength, and takes a deep breath. The darkness actually makes it easier. “I’m not sure I want to go back,” John says, rapidly, just to get it out as quickly as possible.

Sherlock goes completely still. He turns, very slowly, very deliberately, and his discerning, all seeing eyes focus on John with razor-sharp intensity. John feels that thing again, the coiling tiger, the cliff-edge feeling, and swallows.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, carefully neutral.

John shrugs. “It’s difficult to explain…” He looks away from Sherlock, down at the mossy ground down by the river bed, at lights going on behind the windows of the city, at the slowly darkening sky. “I… it’s not the war. I’m not afraid to fight.” He huffs a little laugh, then corrects himself, “Okay, actually, I’m a lot afraid, but that’s not it. I’m proud to serve my King and my country. It’s…” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “If I survive, and that’s a big if... “ he swallows. “I’ll never be a doctor.”

Sherlock takes a breath and John knows he’s about to interrupt, so he holds up a hand and Sherlock’s mouth snaps closed again, making John snort in amusement. “People like me don’t become doctors, Sherlock. People from North London with dead fathers who can’t afford University don’t become doctors. Especially if the public school they stumbled into out of sheer dumb luck was closed due to the war and they had to spend years billeted somewhere where a proper education wasn’t to be had. Any chance I had went up in smoke during the Blitz.”

Sherlock is staring at him, silent and serious. Then he takes the two steps towards John and grips his shoulders. “Listen to me,” he says, low and intent. “Come back with me, and I’ll make sure you become a doctor. If I have to work nights, if I have to blackmail an entire Oxbridge examination panel, if I have to steal, beg, murder, I will get this for you. If you come back with me.”

Stunned, John stares at Sherlock, who’s very, very close, and very, very warm, and whose eyes are burning into his with all the force of a barely contained tornado. And the thing is, John believes him. Believes Sherlock would do all of these things for him and more. Nobody’s ever so much as crossed the street for John’s convenience, so it’s a heady feeling to have a force of nature like Sherlock so firmly in his corner. 

John nods. “All right.” He cracks a grin he doesn’t really feel. “Would be boring here without you anyway.”

Sherlock huffs a laugh, and slowly, the intensity fades from his gaze, and he lets John go. John immediately misses the warmth of Sherlock so close, and shakes his head to snap himself out of it.

“Tomorrow after work?” he asks, trying to get back to practicalities.

Sherlock nods, once, and an ominous sense of foreboding settles in John’s guts.


	5. Chapter 5

Retracing their steps into the Forest after more than three years feels decidedly odd. It’s farther to walk than John remembers, and he has no idea what to expect when they get there.

Whatever John expected doesn’t matter, it turns out, because they don’t make it to the gate, or even halfway there. They take three steps into the forest and immediately, they’re surrounded by twenty Fey’a pointing wicked-looking spears and arrows at them. 

“Come with us,” their leader, a Fey'a man with a crossbow pointed at them, says in heavily accented English.

“Why should we?” Sherlock answers in passable Feyara. 

The Fey’a in charge gives Sherlock a grin. “Because I said so, and I’m the one holding the crossbow.”

“You’re not going to shoot us,” Sherlock says, still in Feyara. “If you wanted to kill us, we’d already be dead. So, where are we going?”

“I have orders not to kill you, but my orders say nothing about your kneecaps,” the Fey’a leader says, pointing his crossbow at John’s knees.

John holds up a placating hand. “We’ll go with you,” he says, also speaking Feyara, though he knows his pronunciation is horrible. 

The man nods and lowers his crossbow. “Let’s go, then.”

They follow the group of Fey’a through the woods, and for a while they’re walking in silence. Sherlock is looking around curiously, but seems to have as little idea of where this is going as John.

It’s only when they enter a clearing that John realises he’s been here before. It takes him a moment to recognise the Fey’a village with its tree houses that are almost invisible if you aren’t standing right in front of them. A few Fey’a are out and about, going about their chores, collecting firewood, mending clothes, cooking food, minding playing children. It’s almost peaceful, but when they enter the clearing that serves as a sort of village main square, all eyes turn to them, and most gazes are hostile. Something happened here. Something more than a bit not good.

Their escort none too gently prods them towards the largest of the tree houses surrounding the clearing. They climb a rope ladder up and find themselves in a circular room with walls made of branches and a floor covered in furs and thick wool carpets. 

Two women are seated next to each other on seats that seem to grow out of the tree trunk, and one of them gets up as they enter. She nods at John, and John recognises her immediately. “Lya!”

She gives him a grim smile. “John Watson.” Then she nods at Sherlock. “Sherlock Holmes.”  
She gestures at the floor. “Sit.”

He and Sherlock both sit, and the woman they don’t know gestures at a small tray with wooden bowls on them. “Please have some refreshments. The walk must have made you thirsty.” Her voice is deep and dignified, and her English is perfect.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Sherlock inclines his head respectfully. 

John can’t help but stare. So this petite, quite ordinary-looking Fey’a woman is the famed Midnight Queen, the Fey’a ruler. 

The woman smiles. “Well done. But no need for formality. My people call me Ya’ra, you can address me as such if you wish.”

John is pretty sure Ya’ra is the Feyara word for mother, and he’s somewhat surprised that the Fey’a ruler would allow them to address her so informally. 

“Forgive me, Ya’ra,” John says, sticking to English as he doesn’t trust his Feyara. “Why are we here?”

“I was going to ask you that, John Watson,” Lya says sharply. “Why were you entering the Faedorn once again?”

Sherlock and John exchange a long glance, and finally, Sherlock gives an almost imperceptible nod. Might as well tell the truth, that nod seems to say, and John agrees. 

So John explains about Violet Jones and how she got here, and that they wanted to see for themselves whether the Gate is open or not.

Lya and the Midnight Queen listen to them without showing any surprise, or registering any emotion whatsoever. When they’re done, a short silence falls, then the Midnight Queen says to Lya in Feyara, “Tell them.”

Lya looks like she’s about to object, but she subsides when the Midnight Queen glares at her.

“Fine,” Lya grates out between her teeth, still speaking Feyara. Then she switches into English, for which John is eternally grateful. “The Gate is open. We’ve seen it. It’s….” she shudders. “It’s an abomination. They didn’t just reopen the Gate, they ripped it open.” She glares at Sherlock and John. “This is so typical of you humans. Always trying to control nature, never following its rules.”

“Lya, stick to the point,” the Midnight Queen chides her gently.

“How did they reopen the Gate? We were told it’s impossible, that the knowledge was lost,” John asks, remembering the young Fey’a boy who told them this after the Gate was supposedly destroyed.

The Midnight Queen sighs, looking down at her hands. “This is not entirely true. The Ancients left us instructions, how to find the spots where the walls between worlds are thin, and how to build the bridges that bring the worlds together. But the only copy of the book in existence was kept safely among the treasures of our people, and few knew its secrets.”

“When did you discover it was gone?” Sherlock asks, razor-sharp gaze pinned on the Midnight Queen. 

Both Fey’a woman look at Sherlock in astonishment. “How did you know?”

“You used the past tense. Obvious,” Sherlock says in his people-are-all-so-stupid voice, and John gently elbows him in the side. Sherlock looks over at him, irritated, and John tries to silently convey his point that people are more likely to share information if you don’t actively try to irritate them. Sherlock rolls his eyes a little and turns back to the two women. “Forgive me, Ya’ra I was being rude. But back to my question, when did you discover the book had been stolen?”

The Midnight Queen gestures at Lya, and she answers, reluctantly, “The winter before you came here.”

“Who took it?” John asks before Sherlock can.

Lya looks at the Midnight Queen, who gives her a signal to go ahead. “A few years ago, we found a young man on the beach. He’d been shipwrecked. He’d stumbled through a Gate, much like you two, and he’d come out on an island to the west of here, an island we call Thiernanoch.”

“Ireland,” Sherlock whispers to John, and John nods, having come to the same conclusion.

“The island is largely uninhabited, and to find food and help, he built a small ship and came here. We took him in and for a while, he seemed content here. Then the incidents started.” Lya pauses for a moment. “First we didn’t think anything of it. Fires happen, we live in trees.” She smirks humourlessly and gestures at the walls around them. “But more dangerous than his tendencies for violence was that he was unable to let go of his home world. He spoke unceasingly about going back. He told our young ones stories about his world, radios and automobiles and aeroplanes, and some of our young ones were fascinated. So we cast him out. We took the Great Mother Crystal from the Temple of the Mother, and we used it to power the Gate. We took him to the Gate and forced him to go through. And we thought that was it. But some of our young ones were inflamed by his ideas and wanted to see what he'd only described. So two of his most fervent admirers stole the Mother Crystal and re-opened the Gate to let him come back. They also took the book. We found them dead in the Faedorn. The book and the crystal were gone.” Lya’s voice breaks, and Sherlock and John exchange a worried look.

“Forgive me if this is a tactless question, but how did they die?” John asks.

“Poison,” Lya answers, and the anger in her voice is hard to miss. “We searched Faedorn far and wide, but we found neither the book nor their killer.” 

“You discovered that the Gate had been re-opened when we stumbled through, didn't you?” Sherlock asks, but from his tone it's clear it wasn't really a question.

The Midnight Queen nods. “Yes.” She looks down at her hands and when she continues, her voice has an absent-minded, faraway quality to it. “The gates are a burden for us, left to us by our ancestors. We don’t really understand them. They are by their very nature unstable, like rope bridges swinging in the wind. Certain things can be done to stabilise the connection. Crystals, certain metals, spells and rituals. But what you need to understand is that the Ways between the worlds weren’t made by our ancestors, but discovered. They’re here no matter what we do. So we didn’t close the Gates. We wouldn’t know how. We just made them impassable by removing the trappings that made them stable. When we discovered what had happened to the Great Mother Crystal, we took it back. But he had a replacement. So we rigged the Gate to blow up. You know this, as you triggered the trap that was meant for him.”

“But that didn't stop him for long, did it?” Sherlock states.

“No. He broke through from the other side about a year ago. And he brought people with him. Dangerous people. With weapons. They guard the Gate.” Lya shudders. “Since then, we've been trying to apprehend him, but he never comes to the Faedorn personally anymore. He never did like doing things himself,” she adds, and there's a bitter hatred in her tone that makes John's skin crawl.

“Why did you take away our lodestone?” John asks, surprised that his voice sounds much calmer than he feels.

“It can be used to find pathways between worlds,” the Midnight Queen explains. “In the wrong hands, it can be used to find and open another Gate. And that's the last thing we wanted.”

Silence falls as John tries to think through the implications of everything they’ve just learned. “Does Lestrade know any of this?”

Lya shrugs. “We can handle our own affairs.”

“But the people who came through the gates don’t stay in the forest, they came to Temera. Don’t you think this is information he needs?” John asks, and he can’t help it if his tone is a little sharper than intended.

“What are a few more Humans in Temera? Lestrade is a good man, but if knowledge of this became public, he would be pressured to establish a permanent Watch presence in the Faedorn, and if that ever happens it might be a trigger for open violence between Fey’a and Human for the first time in centuries,” the Midnight Queen answers, and John hears the steely resolve in her tone.

“Then why tell us?” Sherlock asks, as ever cutting through to the heart of the matter.

The Midnight Queen looks from one of them to the other, and her gaze softens. “Somehow,” she says gently, “you’ve stumbled into the middle of this. It’s only fair to warn you. We will deal with Jim, one day. Until then, stay out of it.” She rises. “If the opportunity presents itself to send you back before we finally close the Gate forever, then we will let you know.”

With that, she nods at both of them and leaves, Lya close behind. At the exit, Lya turns and points between the two of them. “Stay out of Faedorn. For your own safety. Jim has people everywhere, and the Gate is always under guard. By him and us. If we don’t stop you, he will, and believe me, that’s not an experience you want to have.”

*-*

Dusk is falling as they walk back into Temera. The Fey’a who brought them to the Midnight Queen none too gently deposit them back on the road to Temera, and made it clear that they are to stay out.

Sherlock, predictably, hasn’t said a word since they left the Fey’a village, and John doesn’t blame him. He feels like his own head is about to explode, and he’s sure Sherlock’s far ahead of him, analysing facts and implications. So they walk back in companionable silence, and John tries to make sense of any of this on his own. Three things are clear to him. One, there’s a dangerous criminal on the loose who’s smuggling guns and people from their world into this one. Two, that dangerous criminal, supposedly one Jim Moran, is sitting on their only way home. Three, none of that will stop Sherlock. 

It's that last thought that scares John.

*-*

When they arrive at home, Mrs Hudson tells them a red-haired girl was looking for them.

Sherlock turns to John. “Kitty,” they say at the same time and without exchanging another word, they run out the door again.

*-*

Kitty’s flat is empty and all her things are gone. It’s like she had never lived there. 

“Shit,” John grits out. “What now?”

“Wiggins,” Sherlock says grimly, and they’re off again.

*-*

It’s nearing midnight when they return to Baker Street. They’ve charged Billy and the Irregulars with looking for Kitty, as they’re far better at this than Sherlock or John, so they’ve done all they can for now. John hasn’t eaten since lunchtime, and he’s ravenous despite everything. He’s raiding the cupboards when Mrs Hudson comes into the kitchen, in her nightgown. She smiles at John and makes tea unasked, and when she hugs him John lets her, laying his head on her shoulder. She smells of chamomile and the beeswax soap she makes, and she’s very likely the closest thing John will ever again have to a mother. 

He makes his way slowly up to their room with two mugs of tea and some sandwiches.

Sherlock is pacing when he comes in and ignores both the tea and the food.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Sherlock,” John snaps. “Stop. Sit. Eat.”

Sherlock looks up and apparently decides that it’s pointless to argue, because he actually stops, sits and eats. Grudgingly, glowering, but he does it. John can’t help it, he smiles. “I should mark this day on the calendar somehow. The day Sherlock Holmes did as he was told.”

Sherlock tries to hide his smile unsuccessfully behind his mug. “Shut up,” he says, fondness in each syllable.

John just grins at him, and they finish their meal in companionable silence. Some of the nervous energy seems to seep out of Sherlock while he sips his tea, and John is grateful. When Sherlock finally stops fidgeting and seems to settle down for a long think, John feels settled enough to ask, “Do we go to Lestrade?”

Sherlock snorts. “Lestrade’s an idiot. He won’t believe us, and he’ll tell us off for investigating on our own.”

John nods. “Agreed. What do we do when we find Kitty?”

Sherlock looks grim. “That depends on the state she’s in when we find her.”

*-*

Nothing happens for two days. John tries to focus on his clinic work, but he’s worried about Kitty and distracted by the news about the gate, and finally Sarah corners him.

“What’s going on?” she asks after she’s all but dragged him into a supplies cupboard. 

“It’s… difficult to explain,” he says, and rubs a hand over his face. “It’s been an odd few days.” 

Sarah smiles at him gently. “Anything I can do to help?”

John smiles back, warmed by her obvious concern. “Nothing anyone can do, I’m afraid.”

“Tell me everything over dinner tonight?” Sarah asks, laying a hand on his arm.

John nods gratefully. “Absolutely. Seven at Market Square?”

“Excellent,” Sarah says. “Let’s have a picnic.”

*-*

John’s home for exactly five seconds when Billy knocks, and from the ashen colour of his face, John knows it’s not good news.

“Where?” he asks, hating himself a little for how little control he has over his voice breaking.

“Docks. Watch’s already there. Some workers found her a few hours ago.”

John nods grimly. “Get Sherlock.”

*-*

He meets Sherlock at the address Billy supplied, and he looks as grim as John feels. 

Wordlessly, John falls into step with Sherlock and they walk into the cavernous warehouse. They sneak past the Watchman who’s supposed to be guarding the door and quietly make their way into the very back, where Lestrade and Donovan are bent over a still form on the floor, red hair fanned out like a halo around her head.

John puts a hand over his mouth and breathes, shocked into stillness. He’s seen dead bodies before, he’s almost a doctor, after all, and he lived in a city that was regularly bombed, but this is somehow different. He remembers her fear, her regret about Violet, and he damns himself for not doing more to protect her. 

Sherlock looks at him and gently puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. John has the ridiculous impulse to turn into Sherlock and bury his face in the folds of his coat, wrap his arms around his friends’ lanky frame and just breathe. But he doesn’t, of course, because he wouldn’t. He just nods and Sherlock removes his hand and they step into the light and make themselves known to the two police officers.

“Poison again?” Sherlock asks, and Lestrade and Donovan both start, then look up, deeply disapproving frowns on their faces. 

“What are you two doing here?” Lestrade asks. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

“Dead no more than twelve hours. Footprints, size of shoes says killer most likely a man of above average height and build. Abandoned warehouse means premediation,” Sherlock rattles off, barely looking at Lestrade, gazing at the corpse, taking everything in. “No sign of violence, which begs the question of how he got her to take the poison. Didn’t hide her in a cellar this time, didn’t dump her in the river, so he wanted her to be found. Warning, maybe?”

“Brilliant,” John whispers and Sherlock gives him a quick smile.

“Hogwash,” Donovan says and crosses her arms over her chest. “Obvious suicide. No sign of struggle. The footprints could be days old as far as we know.”

“She was friends with Violet Jones, and I bet anything you’ll find that she died of the exact same poison. That’s not a coincidence,” John points out.

“Frankly, I don’t even want to know how you know she was friends with Violet Jones, but that makes this an even more open and shut case,” Lestrade says, and he rubs a hand over his face, obviously exhausted. “She had access to the poison Violet took, and had a reason to be suicidal.”

Sherlock looks up from the corpse to Lestrade. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

Donovan glares at Sherlock coldly. “We keep to the facts. And the facts say this was suicide.”

“No, they don’t. You’re just ignoring facts you don’t like to fit your theory. Why should she kill herself because her friend did? It makes no sense!” Sherlock exclaims, gesturing at Kitty. “She was being threatened by the same men who killed Violet. You’re being deliberately obtuse because you don’t want to admit you were wrong about Violet.”

“Listen to me,” Donovan spits out, “I don’t know what delusions you’ve concocted in that brain of yours, but I’ll be damned if I’m letting a sixteen-year-old _boy_ tell me how to do my bloody job.”

“Oi,” John cries out before he can help himself. “That sixteen-year-old is the most brilliant person not only in this room but every room he’s ever been in, and the smartest person you’ll ever meet in your life, and if your pride and your stubbornness prevent you from listening to him, then every single person who gets killed while you sit on your arses instead of looking for the killer he tells you is out there is dead because you’re not doing your bloody job.”

With that, John turns on his heel and walks out before anyone can do anything except stare at him.

Once he’s out of the warehouse, he sags against the outer wall of the building, loss of adrenaline making his legs tremble. 

Sherlock walks out two minutes after him, and for a second, they just look at each other. There’s an expression in Sherlock’s eyes he can’t categorise, but when their eyes meet, John feels that thing again, that cliff-edge, knife-edge, poking-a-tiger feeling.

Sherlock’s eyes are overly bright and he looks at John like he’s never seen him before. He’s breathing like he’s just run a race. “That…” he says, “that… was…” He swallows. “Good,” he finally forces out.

John smiles and grabs Sherlock’s wrist. “They’re idiots. You’re brilliant. They should listen to you.”

Sherlock looks at him as if he’s punched him in the face, stunned and nakedly fond. Then he fists his hands in the lapels of John’s jacket and presses their lips together.

John’s brain stops. Everything stops. 

Sherlock’s lips are dry and warm. 

He smells like violin rosin and fresh air, like Mrs. Hudson’s laundry soap and Molly’s grain coffee, chemicals and lavender oil.

His body is warm and near, and John grabs his elbows to have something, anything to hold on to.

It’s over almost in a blink of an eye. Sherlock draws back and looks at him, wild eyed and terrified. He smacks his lips together, and John stares at them, in wordless shock. 

John has no words. No reaction. He’s frozen in time and space. 

Sherlock lets go of him.

John just stares at him, still unable to form a word, or even a thought. 

Silence stretches, and finally breaks as Sherlock turns around and almost runs away.

“Sherlock!” John yells after him, even though he has no earthly idea what to say or do or think. 

He stands there for a while, but then he hears the police officers come out of the building, and follows Sherlock’s example.

*-*

He walks and walks through the city streets, unseeing and unheeding. To say he’s confused would be an understatement.

Sherlock kissed him.

_Sherlock_ kissed him.

Sherlock _kissed_ him.

Doesn’t make any more sense no matter how often he repeats it.

Why did Sherlock kiss him? Are boys even supposed to kiss other boys? And how would that even work? Boys are supposed to kiss girls. And Sherlock has never shown even the slightest interest in kissing anyone, boy or girl. Why would he suddenly be interested in kissing John?

Was this just an impulsive reaction to John defending him? Sherlock is deeply uncomfortable with showing emotion, John knows this. Maybe he didn’t know how to show John he’s grateful and just did the first thing that came to mind. 

John examines this thought from all sides and decides it makes sense. And then he decides that the answer actually doesn’t matter so much, because Sherlock is his best friend and nothing will ever change that.

He stops wandering and goes looking for Sherlock.

*-*

He’s halfway to the clinic when he realises he was supposed to meet Sarah - he checks his watch - an hour and thirty minutes ago.

“Bugger all,” he mutters, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. He’ll apologise tomorrow. Right now he has to find Sherlock.

He’s not at the clinic, and Wiggins hasn’t seen him. John considers walking along the river, but dismisses it, and decides to look in the obvious place. Home.

Their room is dark when he comes in, and he almost misses the outline of Sherlock’s form under the covers of his bed. He’s got his back turned to John, and if it were anyone other than Sherlock, John would assume he’s asleep, but since Sherlock rarely sleeps, it seems most unlikely.

John sits down on his own bed and tries to think of something to say. “Sherlock?” he asks softly, into the dark. Maybe Sherlock is asleep after all.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, and John’s almost relieved. He’s got time to think of something to say, then. He takes off his clothes, pulls on his pyjamas and gets ready for bed as quietly as possible so he won’t wake Sherlock.

He gets into bed, and in the silence that settles he can hear Sherlock’s breathing, and he knows he’s as awake as himself. Normally, he wouldn’t think anything of it, Sherlock often doesn’t talk for hours or sometimes even days, but this time the silence is definitely uncomfortable.

John wishes he could break it, but he has absolutely no idea how. Talking about the kiss seems impossible, but John realises they don’t have to. There’s plenty of things going on that are, in the grand scheme of things, much more important than a few seconds of kissing. (Though if he’s entirely honest with himself, a few seconds of kissing feel momentous right now).

So he asks into the darkness, “What do you think happened to Kitty?”

There’s a pause, then he can almost hear Sherlock releasing the breath he’s been holding. “Obviously, the people who killed Violet asked her to do something she didn’t want to do. Possibly steal something from the museum. She ran, they found her and killed her.”

“What do we do now?” John asks, turning to face Sherlock. Their beds are on opposite walls of the room, but he can still see the outline of Sherlock’s profile in the moonlight coming in from the window. 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says. “Stake out the museum? I’m assuming they’ll try to rob it without Kitty now.”

“I’ll ask Billy and the Irregulars to help,” John adds, and Sherlock nods.

_This would be the time to mention the kiss_ , John thinks. 

John sucks in a breath to speak and then lets it out again. He can’t do it. He still has no idea what to say. “Good night, Sherlock,” he finally says.

There’s no answer, and he almost thinks that Sherlock’s actually asleep by now, and then Sherlock says, softly, gently, “Good night, John.”

It twists something inside John, three words filled with so much warmth and unspoken affection, and John wishes they were twelve again and he could crawl into Sherlock’s bed and it would mean nothing at all. But they’re not twelve any more, so he just closes his eyes and waits for sleep.

*-*

“I’m so sorry!”

Sarah glares at him over the grain coffee in the staff room. “I waited for you for half an hour, John. Half a bloody hour.”

“I know, I know, it’s…” He runs a hand through his hair. “We-” He sighs. “There’s just so much happening right now. You remember the girl that was found when the house collapsed? Her friend was found dead yesterday.”

“What does that have to do with you?” Sarah asks, but her tone is a lot softer now that she sees he’s genuinely upset about it.

“It’s a very long story,” John says and takes a sip of his coffee. “We think she was murdered.”

“We think? Or Sherlock thinks?”

“Sherlock thinks, and I agree,” John answers, trying not to sound defensive. 

Sarah looks at him critically. “You look completely overwhelmed by life.”

He huffs a humourless laugh. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

Sarah takes his hand and squeezes it. The smile she offers him is a little sad, but genuine. “Look, I think you’ve got too much going on right now to do this,” she gestures between the two of them with the hand not squeezing his. “Why don’t you just focus on sorting out whatever mess you’re in, and let me know when you’re done with it.”

He smiles at her gratefully and returns gentle pressure on her hand. “I think that’s probably for the best right now.”

The door opens and Sherlock rushes in. “John!”

“What?” John asks, instantly alert. “What happened?”

For a moment, they’re all frozen, a perfect tableaux, John and Sarah, still holding hands, and Sherlock, staring at their entwined fingers with an unreadable expression. It’s a look that makes John deeply uncomfortable, and he resists the urge to pull his hand out of Sarah’s. After all, he’s not doing anything he shouldn’t. Sarah is the closest thing he has to a girlfriend, and Sherlock is his best friend. _Who kissed me,_ his brain helpfully supplies.

And then, just like that, the moment breaks, and Sherlock visibly - for John, at least - shakes himself out of it. “Billy’s downstairs.”

John looks at Sherlock, who just looks grimly focused now. “Let’s go.”

*-*

Billy has no new information, as it turns out, he just needs money for the Irregulars. They exchange a few terse insults, and Billy’s off again with a few coppers and instructions not to let the museum out of their sight. 

When Billy leaves, Sherlock mutters something about having to check something and rushes off, clearly upset.

John goes back upstairs to deal with his patients. He’s selfishly hoping for a hellishly busy day so he won’t have to think about any of this for a few hours.

*-*

Billy’s nowhere to be seen when John arrives at the museum just in time to take over   
watching the building.

A soft whistle and a flash of an arm lead him to the opposite roof, where Billy’s camped out with a paper bag of parsnip crisps and a bottle of ale.

Billy tersely reports that nothing’s moving, and they settle in to watch. John starts eating the sandwich he picked up from the little shop next to the clinic, and Billy watches him hungrily until John gives him half. 

“Was Sherlock here earlier?” John asks between bites.

Billy nods. “Checked in, went off again.” Billy looks up from his half of the sandwich and takes a drag of his ale. He offers John the bottle, but he waves it off.

“Say, Watson, does Sherlock seem… odd to you?” Billy asks.

“Odd how?” John tries for casual and is pretty sure he fails, especially since he’s also pretty sure he’s blushing.

Billy grins at him shrewdly. “Okay, out with it, what happened?”

He can’t say it. This is between him and Sherlock. Sherlock would be so embarrassed…

On the other hand, John needs to talk about this to _somebody_ , and a street-smart, morally deeply ambiguous petty criminal like Billy isn’t likely to judge.

“He kissed me,” John confesses, looking down at his sandwich so he won’t have to see Billy’s expression.

Billy pauses for a moment. “And…” he says, prompting John to continue.

John frowns, confused. “What do you mean, and? He kissed me. He, a boy, kissed me, also a boy.”

Billy looks thoroughly unimpressed. “And you didn’t like it?” he asks, still apparently unsure what the fuss is about.

“Of course not,” John answers automatically, but immediately after the words are out of his mouth he pauses, because honestly, he hasn’t given any thought to whether he _liked_ Sherlock kissing him. It’s never occurred to him to even ask that question. It’s wrong, there’s all there is to it. Whether he liked it or not should be irrelevant. Boys don’t kiss boys. He looks at Billy, who’s watching him sceptically. 

“Men don’t… do… that… with other men,” John stutters. “How… I mean, how would that even work? And…. just… it’s wrong.”

Billy sighs and rubs a hand over his face, rubbing the sauce from the sandwich over his already dirt-streaked cheek. “Don’t want to know any details, but you ever done it? With a girl, even?”

John shakes his head, now sure he’s blushing. 

“You do know how girls get pregnant, right?”

John rolls his eyes. “I’m training to be a medic. So yes, I know how girls get pregnant. I even know how not to get a girl pregnant.”

“So you know there’s more to sex than just puttin’ your cock…”

“Stop talking, please,” John says, sure he’s going to die of embarrassment any second now. Nobody has ever talked to him about sex before. Vague jokes from his rugby mates are the most he’s ever heard about the subject. 

Billy grins, highly amused by John’s embarrassment. “All right, don’t want to offend no sensibilities, here. But you know, all the stuff you do with girls, the fun stuff, you know, hand and mouth stuff and all that, you can do that with boys, too. And there’s always the arse-”

John clamps a hand over Billy’s mouth, completely sure he doesn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence. Billy laughs against his hand, and when John removes it, he laughs even more. 

“Great Mother, no wonder you and Holmes are both so uptight,” he gasps out, still laughing. “You’re both the most virgin of all the virgins I’ve ever known.”

John buries his face in his hands and wishes the earth would swallow him whole. 

It takes a while for Billy to calm down, but when he finally does, he puts a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. “Seriously, though,” he says, and John looks up, because Billy sounds genuinely serious. “Why do you think two boys having sex is wrong?”

“Hm.” John shrugs. “I… I don’t know, actually,” he says. And the truth is, he doesn’t. It’s not something anybody’s ever told him, it’s just… “I’ve never even heard of men being…having that kind of relationship, so I just assumed it doesn’t normally happen, I guess.”

“Oh, it happens,” Billy says. “I’ve known plenty of men who live with other men, and women who live with women, and nobody thinks anything of it.”

“Really?”

“It’s one thing we learned from the Fey’a,” Billy says with a grin. “They’re plenty adventurous when it comes to sex. Taught our ancestors a thing or two. You should see their sex books.” His grin widens. “I should get you one. Would close some of your knowledge gaps.”

John’s about to answer when someone clears their throat loudly behind them. John and Billy both turn and see Ginger leaning against the chimney, grinning. “Sorry to interrupt, gents.”

John valiantly tries not to blush and fails spectacularly. But he shakes off his embarrassment and asks, “What’s up?”

She grimaces. “Nothing good. New one, Grimy Joe, he found the bloke Holmes was lookin’ for.”

“What bloke?” John asks, confused. 

“Holmes told us to be on the lookout for a bloke, over six foot, odd boots, left-handed, sounds a bit like you two, like he’s not from here.”

John swallows. He has a bad feeling about this. “And Joe found him?”

Ginger nods. “Squatting in an abandoned building down by the river.”

“And he told Sherlock, and Sherlock went off to investigate?” John guesses, though, really, it’s not a guess.

“‘fraid so,” Ginger says. “He did tell Joe to go get you, though, but Joe had no idea who you even are, so here I am.”

John sighs. “Give me the address. And then you’ll be an honest citizen for once and go get the Watch. I’ll tell you what to say to Lestrade.”

Ginger nods at him grimly and presses something into his hand. Something long and cold and made of metal. “Got a feeling you might need this.”

*-*

The building has obviously been abandoned for some time. John watches for a few moments from the other side of the street, but can’t see anything. He takes the long way around to the alley behind the house and very much hopes that he’ll notice Sherlock lurking   
behind a rubbish bin or a broken-down perimeter wall, but he doesn’t see anyone.

Dusk is falling quickly, and he’s glad of it, because the twilight makes it easier to approach the house without being seen. 

There’s a light on in one of the ground floor windows. 

It’s a frail, sickly sort of light, candles filtered through layers of caked dirt. 

John approaches as stealthily as he can, occasionally switching grips on the nasty-looking fire iron Ginger gave him to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants. 

He’s a few steps from the window when he hears voices.

“I have to say, I’m somewhat disappointed.”

John curses under his breath. Sherlock. Of course. Couldn’t wait for backup, had to go in there to play the bloody hero.

“Likewise. You’re supposed to be clever. Can’t say you’ve impressed me yet.” This must be their killer. The voice is deep, rough but powerful. Clearly not from Temera, and clearly not from little country cottages in Sussex, either.

“Let’s see,” Sherlock muses, and John knows what will follow now. Sherlock will put their killer together like a three-dimensional puzzle, and John only hopes he will be intrigued enough to listen before he kills Sherlock. Obviously, that is Sherlock’s plan. Keep the killer talking until backup arrives.

“Durham, I’d say. Coal mining family, hit hard during the Depression. You have the look of somebody who was fed well in childhood but undernourished in puberty. Ran away to London when you were no older than fourteen, fell in with some unsavoury chaps and served a short prison sentence where you got this thoroughly disreputable tattoo on your forearm. Really, a skull and crossbones? Not very original.”

John rolls his eyes as he approaches the window. He presses up against the wall on one side of it and darts a glance inside. 

Sherlock’s sitting at a small table, palms pressed to the surface of the wooden tabletop. The killer’s sitting on the other side. He’s tall and almost too lean, hard muscles standing out against his reed-thin form, attesting to a wiry strength. He’s wearing very modern British looking work boots and, incongruously, Fey’a-style leggings and long tunics. He’s also got a nasty smile and a gun trained at Sherlock. 

Sherlock leans forward a bit, apparently unafraid, and points his chin at the gun. “That handgun is a Browning, obviously British Army issue, so my guess is you met somebody in the service who made you an offer of gainful employment elsewhere, and you weren’t too fastidious about either telling the British Army, or returning your service weapon.”

The killer grins, and it’s the most chilling, humourless smile John has ever seen. “Not bad. Looks like Jim was right about you.”

“Was he?” Sherlock is playing nonchalant, but John can see he’s highly interested, even fascinated. “Tell me a little about Jim. Seeing as you’ll kill me anyway, it won’t matter.”

“See, this is where I can tell you’re just a stupid, arrogant little posh boy. I’m still alive because I know how to keep my mouth shut.” He grins again, a highly unpleasant sight. “Doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun, though.”

“That would depend on your definition of fun,” Sherlock says, a little tremor in his usually so controlled voice, and for a moment, John can see the mask slip, and he realises that Sherlock is terrified. Then the nonchalant swagger is back in his voice and his attitude. “What did you have in mind?”

Frantic with worry, John tries to come up with a plan. He can’t wait for the Watch, that madman might kill Sherlock any second now. He can’t storm into the room, the killer would just shoot him instead of Sherlock. He could create a distraction outside, then try to overwhelm the killer and hope that Sherlock will use the diversion to run away. 

The killer puts two vials in front of Sherlock with a malicious grin. “One of those’ll kill you quick, like falling asleep. Other’s nasty stuff, will have you writhing on the floor like a drunk caterpillar.” He makes an inviting gesture. “Choose.”

Sherlock looks at the vials, then back at the killer. “Jim pays you for this?” he asks, incredulous.

The killer grins. “No. Jim wants you alive. But I think you need to die. Your idiocy has cost us enough. When you two idiots stumbled through the Gate, we were stuck here for a year. And on the other side, the local police went bonkers when you disappeared. Apparently your daddy really wants you back. So I'm not killing you because Jim's paying me. I'm doing this because I'll enjoy watching you die.”

“Charming.” John smiles at Sherlock’s dry tone. “Well, no time like the present, I suppose,” he says, darting a subtle glance at the window, and John grins, because he recognises a signal when he hears one. 

Quickly, he positions himself by the back door and takes off his shoe, then flings it against the dilapidated shed as hard as he can. The noise isn’t as loud as he’d like, but it’ll do.

John can hear the killer say, “Don’t move or you’ll be sorry,” before walking towards the back door. John gathers all his strength, ignoring his shaking knees and the wobbly feeling in his stomach. Now or never.

The killer opens the door, takes two steps out into the back yard, and John strikes with all his - very limited - strength. He was aiming for the head, but the killer turns at the last moment, so John’s blow lands square on the shoulder of his gun hand. The fire iron is heavy and has a nasty hook, and John can feel the impact reverberate back into his own shoulder. 

The killer curses and drops the gun, then rounds on John and attacks. John dodges and tries to get another hit in with the fire iron, but the killer ducks and punches John straight in the face, then follows it up with a knee to the stomach, and John drops the fire iron and goes down like a sack of bricks. He’s got enough sense left to roll into a protective ball and get his arms up to protect his head before the first kick hits him in the stomach. He takes the second and third in the ribs.

A noise that can only be a gunshot cracks through the night air. “Step away from him, please,” Sherlock says, sounding calm as anything.

The killer takes two steps away from John, and John quickly gets to his feet, wincing when he straightens, holding a hand to his ribs. That’s a nasty bruise at least, if he’s lucky.

Sherlock, holding the killer at gunpoint, gives John a quick side-glance. “All right?”

John nods. 

The killer grins at both of them. “Now, boys, don’t be stupid. Let’s call this a draw, all right? You walk away, I walk away. Pretend we’ve never met.”

“And let you go on killing?” John says, moving over to stand next to Sherlock. “Like you killed Violet and Kitty?”

“What’s two dead girls more or less to you? Maybe I can even put in a good word for you with Jim. You boys want to go home, right? Well, Jim can make it happen.”

John goes cold all over. He glances at Sherlock, who’s got an inscrutable look on his face. It’s tempting, that offer. Say yes and Jim will send them home. Forget Violet, and Kitty, and who knows whom else, just pass through the gate and be home again. 

John knows he can never forget Kitty, lying there in that abandoned warehouse. He just wishes he was equally sure about Sherlock.

“Even if that were true,” Sherlock answers, gun trained unwaveringly on the killer. “I highly doubt we’d live long enough to enjoy a happy homecoming. Step this way, please.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort, thanks a bunch,” the killer says, still grinning. “You’re not going to shoot me, and even if you did, I doubt you could hit a cow if it stood still right in front of you, never mind a moving target in the dark.”

“He can’t, but I can,” a voice comes from the darkness, one John never thought he’d be this glad to ever hear. 

Sergeant Donovan steps out from the shadow of the half-collapsed barn, aiming a nasty-looking crossbow at the killer. “Hands over your head, if you please.”

She nods at a second figure, and Lestrade steps out into the light as well, walking up to the killer, already pulling out the handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Violet Jones and Kitty Winters.” He turns to Sherlock and John. “And you two idiots are coming along as well.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, he’s not even looking at Donovan and Lestrade, he’s staring at John with cool, calculating scrutiny. “Did he break your ribs?” he asks, and there’s a cold wrath in his tone that sends a not unpleasant shiver down John’s spine.

“I don’t think so,” John says, but he has to admit he’s not entirely sure. He meets Sherlock’s searching gaze and he feels the thing again, the rushing-in-his-ears, jump-off-a-cliff feeling. 

“Let’s make sure,” Sherlock says, and there’s something in his tone that dares John to argue. 

He doesn’t.

*-*

Molly's on duty at the clinic when they arrive, and she takes John to an examination room immediately.

"What happened to you?" she asks as he removes his shirt. She winces sympathetically when he lifts up his under-shirt to show her the reddened marks from the kicks that are slowly turning purplish-blue.

"Long story," John grits out and hisses in pain when Molly starts examining his ribs. "Let's just say somebody wanted to introduce his boots to my torso."

Molly winces again. "Well, the good news is I think nothing's broken, but I'll bandage these anyway, at least for now. I'd recommend putting some eldritch flower ointment on it twice a day, starting tomorrow morning. And I'm also giving you some painkillers."

John smiles at her. "Thanks."

He gets up so Molly will have an easier time bandaging his ribs, catching a glimpse of Sherlock pacing outside.

"He's worried about you. He would never say so, of course, but he is," Molly says, having followed his gaze.

John smiles. “He's not being subtle about it right now, to be honest.”

Molly huffs a laugh. "He's been a bit off lately, don't you think?" she asks, fetching the bandages from a drawer.

John's still watching Sherlock through the glass pane in the door. "Off how?"

Molly frowns at the bandages in her hands. "Raise your arms a little higher." She continues bandaging his ribs. "I don't know how to describe it. I caught him looking almost... sad, a few times these last few days."

"It's been a trying few days," John answers. Understatement of the decade, he adds silently.

"I know, I autopsied Kitty Winters."

John closes his eyes and winces as Molly tightens the bandages. "I think he might feel responsible. God knows I do. We couldn't help her."

_Also,_ he adds silently, _for the first time in years there's an actual, honest to God chance we might get to go home, and on top of it all, he kissed me, and we haven't talked about it._

Of course he'd rather bite his tongue off than say any of this to Molly. 

Molly tapes down the edges of the bandages. She turns and looks over her shoulder at Sherlock, who's given up all pretence and is hovering outside the door, looking in through the glass. "Should I let him in before he gnaws his way through the door?"

John laughs, then winces because it hurts a little. "Fine. Privacy is overrated anyway."

Molly walks to the door, then turns around halfway there to look at John. "He doesn't show it, but he feels things deeply, you know."

John smiles at Molly reassuringly. "I know."

She nods, satisfied that he means it, and opens the door. Sherlock all but falls into the room, but catches himself quickly and looks critically at John. “Anything broken?”

Molly shakes her head. “But it won’t hurt any less, I’m afraid.”

With a nods at both of them, Molly leaves. John sighs in relief and gingerly puts his shirt back on. He winces slightly, then gazes up at Sherlock, who’s still looking at him with a small worried frown line between his brows. 

“I’m fine,” he says, and even gives Sherlock a small smile. The smile fades as they look at each other wordlessly. “You couldn’t wait half an hour for me?” John finally says, and he wishes he had the energy for anger, he only sounds exhausted, and he wants Sherlock to know that this is unacceptable.

Sherlock shrugs, looking only slightly abashed. “I was only going to have a look around. He caught me a few hundred metres from the house. He knew I was coming and he was waiting for me.”

“Grimey Joe works for Jim?” John guesses.

Sherlock smiles, small but genuine, and he gives John an approving look. “Very good, John. You’re learning.”

“Sod off,” John says without heat.

Silence falls as they keep looking at each other. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it’s not exactly easy either. There’s something in Sherlock’s gaze, something weighty and ever so slightly challenging.

“You kissed me,” John says, and immediately wishes he hadn’t, because it’s like suddenly a space opens between them even though neither of them has moved, and he can almost see Sherlock’s defences go up. 

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “That was a mistake. Apologies,” he says coolly, his entire body one rigid line of tension that wasn’t there a moment ago.

“What kind of mistake?” John asks, trying to make it clear from his tone that he is genuinely asking. 

“It was just a chemical reaction,” Sherlock answers, gesturing at his head. “Brain chemistry malfunction.”

“Chemical reaction?” John frowns. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Really, John, you know every impulse we have is based on our brain sending chemical signals to our body, so I experienced a chemical malfunction in my brain that made me react…. inappropriately. It won’t happen again.”

John knows he should just shut up and accept this. But shutting up has never been a Watson strength. “So any and all emotion is just brain chemistry?” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, glaring at him impatiently. “Your point?”

John honestly isn’t sure he has one. “So you kissing me, that was a… malfunction? Of your brain?”

“I already said that. You know I hate repeating myself,” Sherlock snaps. “I also already said it won’t happen again.”

“But…”

“Do you want me to do it again?” Sherlock asks, staring at John, a challenge in his eyes.

_That’s the million pound question, isn’t it,_ John thinks, looking back at Sherlock, and for a moment their eyes lock and John feels his face heat and his pulse pick up, and at the same time he’s petrified, because he’s not remotely prepared to answer that question.

He drops his eyes and looks at his hands, heart beating like he just played an especially energetic game of rugby. “I honestly don't know.”

Silence falls. John looks up at Sherlock, who looks stunned. 

“What?” John asks, the pain in his ribs making him a little snappish. 

“You...” Sherlock obviously has no idea what to say next, and it's sort of flattering, surprising Sherlock Holmes into speechlessness. John manages only very rarely. “You don't know?” Sherlock says at last, sounding terribly unsure of himself for once.

John shrugs. “Well, it's... I don't know, I never thought about it before. It wasn't...” he makes a vague gesture. “It wasn't horrible, or anything. It was just really surprising.”

Sherlock gives him a small smile. “So what now?”

John sighs. “I have no idea.” Suddenly, he feels like somebody dropped this entire day on his shoulders like a ton of bricks. He’s exhausted, and he hurts all over, and all he wants now is his bed.

“Come on,” Sherlock says, quietly, almost gently. “Let’s go. You need to sleep.”

John can’t argue with that, so he follows Sherlock out into the cool spring night.

They walk the short distance to Baker Street in silence, and John tries to start sorting out the events of the day.

At the door of Baker Street School, Sherlock hesitates. “You go on up,” he says, “I’ll go see Billy, and then I’m going by the Watch to give a statement.”

John nods. “Want me to come with you?” he says, even though he’s dead tired, but he feels a bit uncomfortable letting Sherlock walk the night streets alone right now.

Sherlock looks him once over and obviously swallows down what he wanted to say and settles for a gentle, “No. I’ll be fine. Get some sleep.”

“What if something happens?”

Sherlock smirks and pulls the gun out of his coat pocket. “Oops, I seem to have forgotten I still had this.”

“Don’t take it with you to the Watch, then,” John says and holds out his hand.

“Good point.” Sherlock hands it over and John checks whether the safety is on. It is, thankfully.

“Will they need this to prosecute him?” John asks before pocketing the gun and handing Sherlock the fire iron he used to club the killer.

“No, he didn’t use it to kill either of the girls,” Sherlock answers and turns to go.

John grabs his coat sleeve to stop him from going, and Sherlock turns around, looking at him questioningly. 

“That offer he made us. Do you think it’s genuine?” John asks the question that’s been going around in his mind since the killer mentioned it.

“No. Not from him,” Sherlock says. 

“Are you tempted? To see whether we can strike a bargain with a killer to get us home?” John asks, and it comes out more challenging that he meant to. But he has to know.

Sherlock looks down at John’s hand still twisting into the fabric of his coat. John follows his gaze and unclenches his fingers from Sherlock’s sleeve.

“What do you want me to say?” Sherlock asks, equally challenging. “I’m not sure what you want to hear.”

“The truth, Sherlock. I want the truth,” John snaps, pain and tiredness and fear wearing down his temper. “I want to know whether in your big brain you’re currently concocting a complicated scheme to get us home by somehow either truly striking a bargain with a killer or tricking him into thinking we’re going to. I think I have the right to know.”

“Of course I’m tempted! Didn't you hear him? My father is still looking for me,” Sherlock hisses, “ But I have far too little data to form a plan, and I’m not risking our lives on a fraction of a possibility. Satisfied?”

John holds Sherlock’s eyes until he’s convinced Sherlock is serious. At least for now. “Okay.”

“Now, go to bed before you fall down,” Sherlock says, tone softening. “You look absolutely terrible.”

“Be careful,” John says, then goes inside and collapses on his bed. He’s asleep almost before his head hits the pillow.

*-*

When he wakes up the sun is shining brightly into their room. He checks his watch and curses, because his clinic shift started two hours ago. Also, every inch of his body hurts. 

Sherlock is lying on his bed, fully dressed, fingers steepled under his chin in his favourite thinking pose. He doesn’t even look up when John stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, but he’s up when John comes back. 

“Here,” Sherlock says, handing John a jar of ointment and a few white pills. “I went by the clinic to pick this up for you. Also, Molly said you don’t have to come in for the next few days because of your injuries.”

“Oh thank god,” John sighs and sits down heavily on his bed. “Any news?”

“Plenty, but nothing that we can do anything about right now, so I can tell you after breakfast, if you prefer.”

John nods gratefully and closes his eyes, leaning back against the wall behind his bed. He drifts a bit, not paying much attention when the door opens and closes. He only opens his eyes when he hears the door again and Sherlock comes in carrying a mug and a sweet bun. He hands over both to John with a look that dares him to comment. John wisely doesn’t, but he smiles to himself behind his mug, because trust Sherlock to consider bringing his injured friend breakfast an embarrassing weakness not to be mentioned on pain of immediate withdrawal of the favour. 

“So,” he says after finishing his tea and his bun, feeling slightly more human, “the news.”

Sherlock, who’s been sitting quietly with a far away look in his eyes, immediately gets up and starts pacing. “First, the Watch were able to match our killer’s fingerprints to ones found at Kitty’s crime scene, so they can tie him to the murder. Second, they went through his things and found out his name is Jefferson Hope, British Army Infantry. He has a ration book from 1941, so we can safely assume he came here in that year.” Sherlock pauses for effect. “He’s also dead.”

“What! How!” John’s on his feet in surprise, but he quickly sits down again as his ribs protest.

“Poison. He was found dead when Sergeant Donovan went into his cell to question him. Apparently he had a vial of poison sewn into the hem of his shirt. Clever of him, somewhat surprisingly, since otherwise he was so very dull,” Sherlock muses, his tone academically dry.

“How exactly was he dull?” John asks, unconsciously rubbing his ribs.

“The one interesting thing about Kitty and Violet’s murders was how he got them to drink the poison, and he just forced them to at gunpoint. Dull,” Sherlock says dismissively.

“Three people are dead, Sherlock,” John reminds him.

“I am well aware how many people are dead, but my point remains. Hope was of limited intelligence, therefore a minor pawn, so catching him, while satisfying, doesn’t get us anywhere with regard to Jim,” Sherlock says, tone still academic but slightly impatient now. 

John knows he won’t get Sherlock to see the point (murders aren’t ever dull for the people involved) and moves on. “What about Grimey Joe?”

“No trace of him so far,” Sherlock says and starts pacing again. 

“Do you think the Irregulars are compromised?” John asks, and he knows his tone reflects his worry about Billy especially.

“We’re going to have to assume so,” Sherlock answers, stopping in front of the oven. He opens the door and stabs the fire viciously with the poker Ginger gave John last night. “Damn Jim, I’ve spent years cultivating a relationship with them, and he just… pays them better!”

“I’m sure Billy at least will stay loyal.”

Sherlock snorts. “Billy will stay loyal to whomever pays him more. But at least Billy might give us a chance to outbid Jim.”

John nods and reaches for the pot of eldritch flower ointment Sherlock brought.

He pulls up his undershirt and takes a look at the bruises covering the left side of his ribcage. 

He hears Sherlock’s intake of breath and glances up at him. "It looks worse than it is." 

Sherlock raises a sceptical eyebrow. "Next you'll tell me it doesn't hurt that much."

John smirks. "No, it hurts like hell."

He dabs two fingers into the little jar with the ointment and starts rubbing it into the bruises. He feels a bit odd doing it, very aware that Sherlock is still watching him. It's difficult to reach around his torso, and he winces in pain as he twists around to get at the bruises at the back of his ribcage. 

Cool hands push his aside and lift his under-shirt up, rubbing the ointment onto the bruises on his back, and John goes entirely still. It's a little too rough to be entirely pleasant, but the unfamiliar touch still makes goosebumps rise over John's entire body, and he twists his head to look at Sherlock, who is frowning at the bruises, holding up John's under-shirt with one hand and applying the salve with the other. Sherlock’s touch is almost clinical, but it still seems like he can feel every individual molecule of Sherlock’s skin touching his. Sherlock’s hands are cold. It's oddly pleasant. 

Sherlock finishes applying the ointment but doesn't let go of John's under-shirt, studying the bruises with the intense attention he usually reserves for unsolvable puzzles - and occasionally John Watson. John feels slightly dizzy and strangely hot, like the temperature in the room has suddenly risen significantly.

Sherlock looks up and their eyes meet, and John can't breathe properly, because Sherlock presses his entire palm against his ribs, over the largest of the bruises, ever so gently. "Does it hurt to breathe?" Sherlock asks quietly.

John shakes his head. Each breath presses his ribcage against the palm of Sherlock’s hand, and it's strange, but John doesn't want it to stop.

He holds Sherlock’s searching gaze and feels that thing again, the lightning-crackle-falling-slowly thing, only this time it travels down his entire body, shivering through him down to his toes, leaving an odd warmth in its wake.

He wets his lips, preparing to speak, but whatever he wanted to say gets lost as his train of thought is derailed by Sherlock’s eyes dropping to his lips, just for a second. For a moment he thinks that Sherlock will kiss him again, that he is thinking about it, and he wonders what it will feel like, this time. 

There's a knock on the door, and just like that, that fragile moment breaks, Sherlock removes his hand, John pulls down his under-shirt, and life continues.

“Boys, are you decent?” Mrs Hudson asks from the other side of the door, and John bites down on a laugh, pretty sure it’d come out just a tad hysterical.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course, Mrs Hudson.”

She comes in and smiles at John. “Feeling better, dear?”

“Yes, thank you,” John lies through his teeth and accepts a second mug of tea. 

Mrs Hudson puts a package on the table. “This just came for you,” she says. “Do you boys want some lunch?”

“No, thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock says and takes her by the shoulders to gently steer her out. “You have a nice day now.”

When the door closes behind her, Sherlock makes a lunge for the package. John gets up as well and they both stare at the package for a few seconds. It’s not large, wrapped in brown paper, the name _Sherlock Holmes_ written in a flowing, cursive hand on the paper. “No postage,” John notes.

Sherlock nods. “Left-handed but writes with the right hand.” He takes up the package and sniffs it. “River mud, cheap cologne. Jefferson Hope wrapped this. So somebody knows we caught him and delivered it in his stead.”

“Brilliant,” John says reflexively, because, well, it is.

Sherlock grins at him, pleased as always by the compliment, and almost gleeful at the new puzzle. “Let’s open it.”

Sherlock dons a pair of leather gloves and carefully unwraps the package. Inside they find a miniscule Fey'a crystal, a pair of dirty, broken down shoes, and a note. 

_Come out and play._

“Shit,” John mutters.

“Indeed.”

*-*

Three hours later he, Sherlock, Lestrade, Donovan and Molly are in Molly’s morgue, the dead body that used to be Grimey Joe on the slab. They found him in the exact spot Sherlock said they would, basing his deductions on the exact sort of river mud on his shoes. 

Molly and John are both examining the body, trying to determine time and cause of death, while Sherlock is pacing, rubbing the crystal fragment between his fingers.

“Dead no longer than six hours, I’d say, though the water makes it difficult to be sure,” Molly finally determines, straightening and turning towards Sherlock. “Cause of death probably poison, but I need to run some tests to be sure.”

Sherlock acknowledges her with a nod, as he continues to pace. 

John takes up the small lamp and some instruments and looks into Joe’s mouth. Sherlock looks at him, eyebrows raised, and John nods. Amalgam fillings.

“Another one from your world?” Lestrade asks, having watched the interaction.

“Definitely.”

“But why kill him?” Donovan asks. “He was just an errand boy.”

“Two reasons,” Sherlock says, and every eye turns to him. Both Watch members have their notebooks out, ready to take down Sherlock’s words, and John thinks that just a few days ago, they’d dismissed Sherlock out of hand, and now they’re hanging on every word he’s saying. 

“One,” Sherlock ticks off points with his fingers, “he knew something, or saw something, anyway he was a loose thread and a weak link. Two, to make sure every street urchin in this city knows the price of talking to us.”

John sighs. Sherlock catches his eyes and gives him a humourless half-smile of acknowledgement, and John knows they’re thinking the same thing. There goes any help they’ll get from the Irregulars.

“Is he threatening us?” John asks, meaning Jim, knowing he doesn’t have to spell it out.

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock answers, locking eyes with John. “If he wanted us dead, we’d be dead. I think he wants to test me. He wants to know how I think. He wants to play.” 

There’s something in Sherlock’s voice John doesn’t like. A little bit of… glee, for lack of a better word. Intrigue. Fascination. 

“This isn’t a game,” John says, holding eye contact with Sherlock but gesturing at the dead body on the slab between them. 

“I’m aware,” Sherlock answers, holding John’s gaze steadily and unblinkingly. _Trust me,_ the look says, and the thing is, John _does_ , so he nods, just once, but he feels some of the tension go out of the air between them.

Molly clears her throat audibly, and John starts a little. He’d forgotten about the three other people in the room. 

“I need to do a proper autopsy now,” she says, a pretty clear signal that they’re supposed to clear out. “I’d also like to look at your ribs, John.”

“Why don’t we meet at the station later?” John asks, and everybody agrees. 

Sherlock leaves with the two Watch members, and John follows Molly to Sherlock’s lab area. 

He lifts his shirt and she examines his bruises again. “Looks about as well as was to be expected,” she says, probing gingerly with her fingers, making John wince. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” John lets down his shirt as she straightens. “All right, I’m off then. Thanks for everything, Molly.”

He heads for the door and is almost out of the room when she calls him back. “John?”

Her hesitant tone more than anything makes him turn around. “Yes?”

She looks down at her hands, her entire body language screaming uncertainty, from her lowered gaze to the slight fluttering of her wings. 

He takes a step towards her. “Molly, out with it.” 

It’s odd for Molly to be uncertain when she talks to him. She’s at least ten years older than him, and she supervised the first year of his training, and normally she’s very aware that it’s his job to listen when she talks, but right now she hesitates. “I’m not sure it is my place to get involved, but from what Sherlock said, things in your world are very…. different from ours in… some respects,” she says, obviously weighing every word very carefully.

John feels his face heat up when he realises the direction this conversation is going in, and he’s sorely tempted to flee the room immediately, because talking about this with Billy was embarrassing, but talking about this with Molly might make him combust with shame. “Is this the ‘it’s not wrong for two boys to kiss’ speech?” John asks, trying not to sound like a croaking, insecure teenager, which is challenging, because it’s exactly what he is. 

Molly seems relieved. “Oh, somebody already gave you that speech? Good.”

This seems the perfect opportunity to exit the conversation with everybody’s dignity intact, but as always, John’s curiosity wins out over his sense of self-preservation and he asks, “What did Sherlock say to you?”

Molly blushes a little bit and looks down, picking at her cuticles, a sign that she’s as deeply uncomfortable as he is. “Nothing, really. I said something to him, rather.”

“What did you say?” John asks, intrigued now.

“I said if he doesn’t tell you he likes you, you won’t figure it out on your own,” Molly says, looking up at him and giving him a small smile.

Stunned, John gapes at her for a few moments, then asks, “How did you figure it out?”

“It’s obvious,” Molly says in a rather good imitation of Sherlock, and they both smile. “When he looks at you, it’s like nobody else exists. It’s rather sweet, actually.” She pauses a bit and adds, “Never tell him I said that.”

“I’ll take it to my grave. Promise.” John pauses a bit. “What can you tell from how I look at him?”

Molly smiles at him compassionately. “You need to figure that one out on your own, I’m afraid.” She lays a hand on his arm. “I just wanted to make sure you know it’s all right to ask yourself that question.”

“Easier said than done, I’m afraid,” John answers. “I never even realised I had that choice, and it’s scary.”

Molly squeezes his arm affectionately. “You’ll figure it out.”

John just nods, wishing he felt as confident about it.

*-*

Sherlock is waiting for him outside the clinic. “We need to figure out what Jim wants from the museum,” Sherlock says instead of a greeting, turning to walk away, assuming John will follow.

John, as always, follows.

*-*

The Municipal Museum is an ordinary-looking two-story building. They're lucky the museum is open, because its opening hours are eclectic, to put it mildly. They're also the only two people in there, which is a pity because the museum is surprisingly fascinating.

The entire two floors are dedicated to the waves of people who came to Temera. From stone-age spearheads to bronze coins, Roman helmets, an oil painting of the remains of a slave ship that sunk off the coast. A Bible from 1555, a half-crown from Cromwell's days. Letters and photographs from 1918. 

They meet the museum's one and only employee, an elderly Fey'a man, on the top floor. Sherlock and John introduce themselves as friends of Kitty's.

“Oh, poor thing.” The old man shakes his head mournfully. His hair is lush and white, and he's wearing spectacles. His gossamer wings and tiny stature are all that set him apart from every librarian John has ever met on Earth. “She was such a ray of sunshine. Always smiling, just so happy to have a job.”

John tries to imagine Kitty happy and alive, but his mind always flashes back to her lying dead on the cold warehouse floor, red hair pooled around her too pale face. 

“Did she show special interest in a specific object?” Sherlock asks, sharp gaze darting around the museum, seeing everything, but so far apparently not what he'd been looking for.

“Funny you should ask that,” the curator muses. “Come with me.”

He leads them through a door that says 'Employees only' in English and Feyara, and into a tiny kitchen. He gestures for them to sit down and then takes the chair opposite them with a heavy sigh. “Truth be told,” he says, looking down at his hands. “There's been a theft. And since Kitty disappeared right afterwards, I have to assume she took the object.”

“What did she take?” John asks, clenching his hands to stop them from shaking with barely suppressed excitement.

“The lodestone the villagers used to get here from 1918,” the old man answers.

John and Sherlock exchange a grim look. 

“Why didn't you report the theft to the Watch?” Sherlock asks the obvious question.

The old man shrugs. “I liked Kitty, and I felt sorry for her. Anyway, it didn't really matter, because the lodestone is a fake.”

“What?” Sherlock and John ask at the same time.

“One of our ancestors dropped the original when they went through the Gate. It's been lost for centuries. The one here is a replica.”

Sherlock looks at the old man intently. “Did Kitty know this?”

The curator shakes his head. “No.”

*-*

They walk away from the museum in silence. 

“Wait!”

They both turn around to see a young man running after them. He's in his early twenties and has dark hair and dark eyes and he's very pale. 

“Sorry,” he says when he catches up with them. “But the curator at the museum told me you were asking about Kitty?”

Something clicks in John's head. “Are you her boyfriend?” 

The young man nods. “I was, I suppose,” he says quietly, looking down at his hands. 

“My condolences,” John says automatically, even though somehow the young man's sadness doesn't seem to go very deeply.

“What can we do for you, Mr....” Sherlock asks, eyes keenly on the boyfriend.

“Moriarty,” the young man supplies. He turns his attention to Sherlock, and there's something in his eyes that slightly unsettles John. He has to fight the urge to step between Sherlock and Moriarty. “I was just wondering if you'd heard anything about her death,” Moriarty continues.

“Her killer was caught,” John says before Sherlock can. 

Moriarty doesn't take his eyes off Sherlock, and Sherlock stares right back.

“Why did he kill her?” Moriarty asks, and there's something distinctly off about the tone of his voice, it's too... clinical, too detached somehow. 

“She had something he wanted. Only it wasn't the thing he was really after,” Sherlock says, and there's something off about his tone as well. He's... measured. Cautious.

Moriarty sighs and takes a step closer to Sherlock. “Well, thank you for taking an interest in her. It means a lot.” He stresses the last few words, lending the platitude surprising weight. He takes another step closer to Sherlock, and John can't help himself, he neatly steps between them, effectively preventing Moriarty from getting closer to Sherlock. He doesn't exactly know why, but he doesn't want this man anywhere near Sherlock. 

Moriarty's eyes snap to John, and he smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes. “Well, good day to you both. Maybe we will meet again.”

With that, he turns and walks away, and John can barely suppress a shudder. “Odd one,” he mutters and looks at Sherlock, who's staring after Moriarty with an oddly intense expression on his face. “Oi!” John snaps his fingers in front of Sherlock's face to get his attention.

Sherlock visibly shakes himself out of whatever he was thinking and turns his attention to John. “Let's go.”

*-*

They walk for a while in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

“So that’s what he wants from us,” John muses after a few minutes of silence. “He thinks we still have the lodestone.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock answers absently. He stops and rounds on John. “Don’t you see? The package! He’s sending a very clear message. The shoes were a threat. Look at what I do to people who get in my way. But the crystal, I think that was an offer.”

“What kind of offer?”

“Work with me and I’ll send you home?” Sherlock guesses with a shrug. 

“But why doesn’t he just kill us and take the lodestone?”

“He doesn’t know where it is,” Sherlock points out. “We could have hidden it literally anywhere, and I think he’s running out of time. He has to have the lodestone because he needs to expand his operations to keep his men well-paid.”

“We can’t bargain with him, Sherlock,” John says pre-emptively. 

“Why not?” Sherlock asks, and it’s difficult to tell from his tone if he’s been serious or not.

“First, because we don’t actually have the lodestone. And second, and I don’t believe I need to even say this: Because he’s a killer, we can’t ignore that,” John points out, trying to stay calm, but honestly he’s a bit worried by now.

“None of his victims will come back to life if we don’t bargain with him.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it,” John snaps, irritated by Sherlock’s brazen attitude and by the pain in his ribs.

“No, the _point_ is that this might be our very last chance to get home, ever,” Sherlock almost yells. 

“At what price?” John demands, matching Sherlock's tone. “We get to go home, and bugger anyone who dies as a consequence?”

“Easy for you to say, you don't even _want_ to go home,” Sherlock bites back. “Easy to see why, really, nobody's waiting for _you_.”

John stills, and he swallows. It's true, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to hear. “What... how do you know?” he asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds, how vulnerable. 

“Oh, John, it's so _obvious_. Three weeks at Musgrave mansion, you only got one single letter. Not a correspondence between a caring parent and a child away on his own for the first time. New man, is it? Disapproving son, still hung up on his dead father's memory, tension, she wants to move on, you won't let her,” Sherlock narrows his eyes at John, rattling off deductions at lightning speed, all his attention zeroed in on John, and for the first time, John doesn't feel it as a tingling, rushing-falling-jumping, but as a punch in the gut. “Nobody's waiting for you, so you'd rather stay here, in this small, insular, tiny little boring place where you've finally found a life you could never have at home. So it's easy for you to be all noble and not bargain with the killer, because nobody _cares_ whether _you_ ever make your way home.”

Silence falls, and John hates how loud his breathing is in his own ears. His throat is tight, and his eyes are stinging. 

The worst part is of course that everything Sherlock just said is completely true. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt to hear, especially from the one person who's always, always been on John's side before. 

When he finally thinks he won't actually cry, he turns his gaze to Sherlock's face, who looks as shell-shocked as John feels. “John,” he whispers. “I...”

John holds up a hand. “You know what, you're right. So do what you want. Nobody cares about me anyway.”

He turns and walks away.

Sherlock doesn't follow.

*-*

John walks home almost in a trance. His entire body aches, and there's a persistent pain in his chest that has nothing whatsoever to do with his bruised ribs. 

The rational part of him knows Sherlock is already sorry for what he said, was sorry before the words finished leaving his mouth, that Sherlock can be an arsehole when he lets his brain run away with his mouth, but the nastiness Sherlock is capable of has never been directed at _him_ before in such a personal way. And he _knows_ Sherlock cares about him, but right now, for the first time, he isn't sure that's enough. He was sure before that Sherlock wouldn't try to go home without him, now he thinks maybe he was wrong. And the thought of losing Sherlock _hurts_. The thought of not talking to him every day, not hearing his breathing at night from the other side of the room, not ever having the chance of finding out whether he wants Sherlock to kiss him again, it's nearly unbearable. And he's not sure that there's anything he can do to change that outcome. When Sherlock comes back, he'll probably apologise, and John will forgive him, but the certainty that Sherlock won't just discard him like a well-read book is gone, and John isn't sure he can easily regain it. 

When he arrives at home, the pain in his ribs is almost unbearable, so he strips off his jacket and shirt and applies another layer of ointment. Then he lies down on the bed and takes one of the tablets Molly gave him. The pill hits him like a ton of bricks and he falls asleep in spite of everything.

When he wakes up, there’s a man sitting in his chair, gun casually trained on John.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Watson,” he says.


	6. Chapter 6

John wakes up tied to a tree. Which, frankly, isn’t surprising in the least. He feels a bit like every bone in his skull is hurting individually. There’s a low-level pressure on his eardrums and a light humming sound in the air, almost inaudible, more sensation than noise.

He’s felt this before.

The Gate.

He blinks his eyes open.

“Holy mother of god,” he whispers at what he sees.

It’s night. He’s sitting with his back to a giant, ancient oak, hands and feet tied in front of him, ropes around his torso fixing him to the tree. Every breath rubs his bruised ribs against tree bark or rope. It’s, true to British understatement, unpleasant. Actually, it’s agonising. 

But somehow what he sees is worse. 

The clearing is lit by strategically placed torches. The iron pillars that used to hold the bronze mirrors are bent out of shape from the explosion three years ago, and the mirrors are gone. A tripod supports what John supposes must be the Fey'a crystal that powers the Gate. It’s the size of a human head and shimmers in the torchlight. The stone is attached to a pendulum that swings back and forth constantly without stopping and without any source of energy, which John is pretty sure is impossible. There's writing on the floor, in the flowing Feyara script, and directly above it, the air shimmers and ripples, like it does on a hot day when the sun shines on concrete. A barely visible energy beam from the crystal seems to disappear into the void created by the shimmering, rippling field of air. 

He thinks back to how Lya described what Jim has done, and thinks abomination was too mild a word. 

“It’s not very elegant, I know.”

John stars, which _hurts_ , and a man steps out into his field of vision, smiling at John nastily, snorting a laugh at the pain on his face. 

John recognises him instantly. It’s Kitty's “boyfriend” from the museum. “So you’re Jim,” John muses. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Only a bit disappointed.”

Jim smiles without humour, and there’s something in his eyes that makes the hair on the back of John’s neck prickle. His eyes have the same razor-scalpel intensity as Sherlock’s, but where having Sherlock’s undivided attention is thrilling, there’s something about Jim’s eyes that triggers an almost animalistic instinct to hide from an apex predator. 

“Oh, Johnny boy,” Jim sing-songs. “You’re lucky I’m in a playful mood. Otherwise I’d just torture you until you’d tell me where the lodestone is.”

“Why don’t you?” John asks, hoping against hope that this isn’t what it looks like, that he isn’t the worm on the hook, the cheese in the trap, the lure for the bigger game.

“Oh, I would, don’t get me wrong. You’re rather pedestrian and boring, and I have enough little helpers to do my dirty work,” Jim says, crouching down so they’re at eye-level. His odd voice is almost hypnotic, and he’s not even trying to hide the Irish lilt now. “But Sherlock, on the other hand…”

“Stay away from him,” John grates. Something about the way Jim says Sherlock’s name makes his hackles rise. 

Jim grins, apparently vastly amused by John’s anger. “Why would I? He’s the most interesting thing I’ve found here so far.” He leans closer to John. “Oh, I’ve got so much to offer him, don’t you see? Brilliant, vibrant Sherlock Holmes, trapped in this insignificant little place, always under-challenged, always fighting boredom, always this voracious intellect, needing to be fed, oh, the puzzles I could give him. We could rule this world, he and I, and ours, too. Once this war has ground Britain into dust, we can take over so easily, like Germany, so easy. A few lies there, a little fear here, and there you go.”

“You’re mad,” John whispers, but it’s more to himself, because he realises Jim doesn’t even see him any more. Also, it’s difficult to argue with the logic of what he’s saying. Sherlock’s restless, relentless search for anything that actually challenges him has stalked them both since they got here. Before, even, he thinks, remembering a twelve-year old boy dissecting a rabbit at three in the morning. Anything not to be bored. 

Jim’s grin broadens, as if he’s read John’s thoughts. “You know I’m right. I can offer him the two things he wants most. A challenge, and a way home.”

_And what about me?_ John thinks but doesn’t ask, too afraid of the answer. Is he threat, reward, or collateral? Is he on the list of things Sherlock wants? 

“Anyway,” Jim says, patting John’s knee almost amicably and getting to his feet again. “He should be here any minute. I’ve sent him an invitation. Seb!”

The man who “invited” John here steps out of the shadows. Jim gestures between them. “You’ve met Moran, right?”

John doesn’t dignify the rhetorical question with an answer. Instead, he wonders aloud, “So he’s one of your little helpers? What’s a former British Army officer doing with an Irish farm boy half his age?”

Moran steps up to John and leans down, grinning at him. “He makes me money,” he stage-whispers to John. 

“Now hush,” Jim says to both of them, eyes trained on the forest. “I rather think our special guest is here, and you’re a surprise for him, Johnny.” With that, Moriarty turns down the lamp until it’s barely more than a glimmer. 

John's stomach twists at the thought of what Sherlock is walking into. He hopes against hope that Moriarty is wrong and Sherlock just won't show up, but he knows Moriarty is right. He provided the two things Sherlock can't resist, a puzzle and a way home. Now it only remains to be seen what his role in this farce is. Whatever it is, he doesn't look forward to finding out.

*-*

The silence is absolute, save for the sounds of a forest at night. The hoot of an owl, the rustling of leaves as small animals forage for food. The steps of an underweight, tall, sixteen-year-old body on thick under-brush.

John’s moved beyond pain, beyond cold. Every nerve in his body is on high alert. He’s wriggling his hands, his feet, anything to get out of these ropes, but the knots hold fast. He’s stuck. He hopes Moriarty will cut him loose from the tree at least to display him to Sherlock, and he’s moving his legs around as much as he can to keep them from falling asleep. 

Underneath it all, dread hums under his skin. 

And the Gate. It’s an ever-present drumming in his ears, behind his eyes, vibrating between the very bones of his skull. 

Next to him in the darkness, Moriarty is waiting, muttering to himself, fidgeting. John wishes he could knee the man in the groin. It would be incredibly satisfying, and worth the no doubt dreadful consequences.

For a few long minutes that feel like hours to John's over-sensitised nerves, nothing happens.

Then Moriarty sucks in a breath and John turns his head, stomach sinking with dread as he sees Sherlock step into the clearing.

“Love what you've done with the place,” Sherlock says loudly, his voice carrying over the clearing over the hum of the Gate.

John snorts, and Jim grins. It makes John deeply uncomfortable, seeing the unabashed fascination in the eyes of the psychopath as he watches Sherlock.

“Time to go, Johnny boy,” Jim whispers to John and cuts him free from the tree. His hands and feet are still bound, and Jim all but drags him to the edge of the clearing, just outside of the circle of light created by the torches.

John tries to struggle free, but Jim's grip on him is firm and all that's keeping him upright.

“I brought you something,” Sherlock is saying, holding up something between his fingers, turning slowly, apparently trying to find Jim in the darkness.

Jim shoves John roughly at Moran and steps into the light. “Hello, Sherlock,” he says, all smooth sweetness. “Glad you could make it.”

Sherlock stops and turns, and John can see Sherlock's razor-sharp attention focussing on Jim. His face registers no surprise, just an alert wariness. “Good evening, Mr Moriarty.”

Jim smiles, an insinuating, oily sort of smile that makes John grind his teeth. “Call me Jim, my dear.” He steps closer to Sherlock, and Sherlock holds his ground, watching Moriarty carefully, apparently unafraid, but John knows him well enough to see the coiled tension in his lanky frame. “Glad you could make it. You brought me something?”

Sherlock holds up the lodestone so Moriarty can see it clearly. It's spinning violently and at long last setting to point directly at the Gate.

_How? _John asks himself. He remembers quite clearly that Sherlock told him the Fey'a took it off him. So it must be a different lodestone, or a very clever fake.__

___Or he lied,_ a small, insidious voice whispers inside his mind. _Wouldn't be the first time.__ _

__John shakes his head to push past the cold pit of betrayal forming in his stomach. Survive now. Be angry later._ _

__He tests Moran's grip on him by squirming, but Moran tightens his grip and pokes John in his side, hitting his bruised ribs. John tries to hold in the whimper of pain but he isn't entirely successful. “Hold the fuck still if you don't want more of that,” Moran whispers in his ear._ _

__Moriarty, meanwhile, still grinning broadly, is holding out his hand for the lodestone. “Give it to me, then, and we can start negotiating your reward.”_ _

__Sherlock doesn't smile back. He takes a definitive step towards the Gate, and says, coldly, “I've got a better idea. You give me John Watson, or I toss the damned thing into the Gate.”_ _

__John smiles grimly, and some of the tension in his stomach eases. At least Sherlock knows what he's walked into._ _

__Jim grins. “Very good, Sherlock. Though I must say I'm a bit disappointed that you guessed my surprise.”_ _

__He gestures vaguely in their direction and Moran takes this as a cue to drag John forward into the light._ _

__Jim and Sherlock are standing maybe six feet apart, just outside the shimmering ring of metal and power around the Gate. Moran drags John to stand by Jim's side, a nasty-looking knife in his hand._ _

__“Sherlock,” John says, very clearly, very distinctly. “Run away. Now.”_ _

__Both Jim and Moran snort in amusement, but John ignores them and focuses on Sherlock._ _

__He's pale and looks run ragged, as if he hasn't slept in a while and hardly eaten, and John swears to himself that if they get out of here he will sit on Sherlock for as long as it takes to get him to eat a sensible meal and get a good night's sleep. John tries to stay on his feet as he all but feels Sherlock's attention focus on him, scanning him for injuries, probably, before his gaze locks with Sherlock's. He sees fear there, and steely resolve. Sherlock cocks his head a little to the side, questioning, and John realises that Sherlock is asking for John to trust him, to play along with whatever Sherlock's got planned. John gives a barely perceptible nod, and he sees a fraction of the tension go out of Sherlock._ _

__“Let him go,” Sherlock says, returning his attention to Moriarty. “All these dramatics are completely unnecessary. You could have just approached me with a sensible proposition.”_ _

__“Yes, but why should I pay for something I can get for free just by holding a knife to our Johnny boy's throat?” Moriarty asks, eminently reasonable._ _

__“The question is, why are we here at all?” Sherlock gestures between the four of them. “Why not just kill us and get it over with?”_ _

__Jim smiles, an insinuating, almost leering sort of smile that makes John long for a bath. “That's the question, isn't it. Why don't you tell me why, then.”_ _

__Sherlock narrows his razor-scalpel gaze on Moriarty, and John feels a shivering, possessive rage well up inside him. He's used to all this focused, single-minded attention directed at a puzzle or even a corpse, but he's the only person Sherlock has ever looked at like that, and John very much thinks of that look as _his_. _ _

__“Because I'm not the only one who gets bored,” Sherlock says softly, and from the twitch on Jim's face, John knows Sherlock hit a mark._ _

__Jim's smile doesn't waver. “So. Have we reached the point where I make an offer, you refuse and I tell Moran to kill your little pet here?” he asks. “All this talking is a little boring, I must confess.”_ _

__Sherlock smirks. “Oh, I think we're not quite done.” He darts a little glance at John, just a flick of his eyes, really, but John's been watching for it._ _

__John flings himself against Moran with his entire weight, knocking him off his feet and landing on top of him. He rolls off and tries to wriggle away as best he can, but he doesn't get far, the pain in his ribs almost blinding, pressing his face into the dew-wet grass. At the same time Sherlock pulls out the gun they took from Jefferson Hope and points it directly at Moriarty's head._ _

__“Here's what's going to happen,” Sherlock grits out coldly. “You untie John. We walk away. I leave the lodestone by the edge of the clearing. You do with it what you want, and you stay the hell away from us.”_ _

__Jim just grins broadly. “I must say you don't disappoint, Sherlock. I knew there was a reason I kept you alive.” He takes a step closer to Sherlock, deliberately, unafraid. “There's only one problem. You see, I have to admit, I lied. I didn't come alone.”_ _

__Moriarty claps his hands once and several men step out into the flickering torch-light. They're all armed, and they all look grimly professional._ _

__Sherlock smirks. “I have to admit,” he says, as about two dozen heavily armed Fey'a step out of the woods behind him, “neither did I.”_ _

__Moriarty's eyes stay locked on Sherlock. “Interesting. But unfortunately a big mistake. Crossbows against bullets, how do you think this will go?”_ _

__Lya, who's at the head of the group of Fey'a, steps forward. “Drop your weapons, and nobody gets hurt,” she declares, her voice ringing over the clearing._ _

__Jim doesn't move for a second, then he quickly darts to the side and makes a dash for John. He struggles as best he can, but Jim drags him to his feet and presses a very sharp knife to his throat. John goes completely still. All his senses sharpen. He can hear the puffing of Moriarty's breath on his face, every inch of the blade pressing into his skin, cold and sharp like death, the smell of wet grass and human fear-sweat, most of it his own, the humming, grating vibrations of the Gate, Sherlock's surprised intake of breath._ _

__Sherlock takes an abortive step towards them, gun still trained on Jim. “Let him go,” Sherlock says, obviously trying to stay calm, but he can't hide the tremor of fear in his voice or in the hand clenched around the gun. “Let him go or I shoot you in the face.”_ _

__“Anybody moves and the boy dies,” Jim yells, and the entire clearing freezes. He grins at Sherlock. “Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. You've never fired a gun before in your life, and the chances of you actually hitting me are close to nil. If you shoot me, you'll probably hit your friend, and I'll greatly enjoy watching him bleed out, even if it means he'll spoil my new suit. Now give me the lodestone, and my men and I will just leave through the Gate.”_ _

__Sherlock looks at John, and their eyes lock. For a moment, John sees all of Sherlock's fear and his uncertainty, but John just meets his eyes squarely and makes a decision. This has to end. Now. “Sherlock. Shoot him.” His voice sounds surprisingly calm._ _

__“You better hope he doesn't hit you instead,” Jim mutters into his ear, intimate, disgusting._ _

__“I don't care if he does,” John answers, eyes still on Sherlock. John knows Jim is right, Sherlock couldn't make the shot in the best of circumstances, let alone now, in the dark, with hands shaking from adrenaline and fear. But he's beyond caring. He just wants Jim dead and Sherlock safe, and he'll gladly take a bullet to get there._ _

__For an agonising moment, the entire clearing seems frozen, like a tableau of barely contained tension, hovering at the edge of dreadful violence, and then Sherlock lowers the gun. “You're right,” he says, still looking at John. “I can't shoot you.”_ _

__He turns around and faces the Gate. “But I can shoot this,” he says and fires several times at the great crystal._ _

__One or more of the bullets hit the crystal and it shatters into a million shimmering shards that trickle to the floor._ _

__The ground begins to shake as the Gate starts to slowly collapse in on itself. The noise, a dull, almost subsonic roar, is deafening. Pain shoots through John's head and vibrates through his skull, a blinding, stabbing white-hot knife driving into him and robbing him of all capacity of thought. He feels himself falling, and hits the ground hard, his still bound hands unable to cushion his fall._ _

__He must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he knows is Sherlock's hands on him, Sherlock's voice. “John! John!”_ _

__John feels more than sees Sherlock trying to untie him, clumsy, shaking fingers struggling against his bonds._ _

__“We have to hurry, the Gate is collapsing,” Sherlock is shouting at him over the din and the chaos, Fey'a struggling with Moriarty's men scrambling to get to the Gate before it's gone._ _

__Through the near-blinding pain in his head and his ribs and the bonds that hold his limbs immobile, John experiences a moment of absolute clarity. He won't make it. But Sherlock still can._ _

__“Sherlock,” he says, clearly, and with enormous effort. Sherlock stills and looks at him, frowning. “Go.”_ _

__Their eyes meet and for a moment, everything seems to stop. John swallows, blinking back the stinging in his eyes, because this is it, then. Goodbye._ _

__“Hurry,” he croaks out. “You can still make it. Go.” He tries for a smile and isn't sure he succeeds. “You've always wanted to go back more than me, so go.”_ _

__Sherlock just looks at him, frozen, stunned, vulnerable._ _

__“It's okay,” John says. “Go now. I understand, all right? Go!”_ _

__The humming, rumbling not-sound behind them intensifies, and suddenly Sherlock throws himself onto John until they're pressed together head to toes, Sherlock shielding both their heads with his arms._ _

__It feels like the entire world shudders, as if hit by a giant sledgehammer. There's a booming sound, and a blinding light, and then nothing._ _

__When John blinks his eyes open, three things become apparent. First, the pain in his head is mostly gone. Second, he's freezing cold and the dew has soaked through the entire backside of his clothing. Third, Sherlock Holmes is lying on top of him, covering him like a blanket. Sherlock Holmes is also gazing at him like he's a minor miracle, and John can't help but smile._ _

__“You didn't go,” he whispers, and he doesn't care that he's stating the obvious. “Why?”_ _

__Sherlock just looks at him, and John basks in the head-rush-adrenaline-shiver feeling of having Sherlock's undivided attention. “You're an idiot,” he finally says and leans down to kiss John._ _

__Sherlock’s lips are dry and he’s trembling a little, and the kiss is just a dry brush of lips, but somehow it reaches down into John and twists his stomach in an entirely pleasant way. Apparently, the question of whether he likes kissing Sherlock has been answered by a resounding yes._ _

__Sherlock draws back after a few seconds, looking adorably ruffled and uncertain. “Sorry,” he mutters._ _

__John smiles. “It’s fine. You can, you know, do that again. If you want,” John adds, feeling a bit like an idiot because he’s blushing._ _

__Sherlock’s answering smile is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen, relieved and delighted and just a tiny bit wicked. “Really?” he asks, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes._ _

__John rolls his eyes. “If you’re going to be like that, I might change my…”_ _

__He doesn’t get any further because Sherlock leans down and kisses him again._ _

__This time, John is ready for it. This time, John kisses back. This time, John feels the kiss down to his toes. Sherlock's hands are on his face, and he angles their heads so their noses don't bump. Sherlock tastes of adrenaline and no sleep, but John doesn't care, he slides his tongue against Sherlock's. It's messy and neither of them knows what they're doing, but it's still the best moment of John's life so far._ _

__Sherlock draws back and John grins at him. “This would be more fun if my hands weren't still tied,” John remarks, and Sherlock flushes bright red, which John finds unaccountably charming._ _

__Sherlock gets off him and helps John sit up. The clearing is in complete chaos. The Fey'a have collected around Moriarty, and he's bound hands and feet, and six crossbows are pointed at him. Most of his men are gone, John guesses they dropped everything and went home when the Gate collapsed._ _

__Lya comes over to them and uses her knife to cut John's bonds. She regards them with a cool gaze that's none too friendly. “You destroyed the crystal. That was not part of our agreement,” she says, looking at Sherlock pointedly._ _

__Sherlock pulls John to his feet and shrugs. “The Gate is closed again, Jim is in custody, I'd consider this a win.”_ _

__Lya looks over to Jim, and her frown darkens. “Good point.” She gestures at the sky. “Go home. It's going to be light soon.”_ _

__John stretches his limbs and winces in pain. He looks over at Sherlock, who's watching him warily, insecure again suddenly, now that the adrenaline rush is fading._ _

__Something occurs to John that he didn’t have time to wonder about at the time. “How did you know Moriarty had me?”_ _

__Sherlock pulls John’s father’s watch out of his pocket. “You left without the watch, so it was instantly clear to me you must have been kidnapped, because you’d never leave this behind.”_ _

__“Brilliant,” John whispers and smiles._ _

__Sherlock holds out the watch to John, but John shakes his head. “You know what, I like the way it looks on you. Keep it.”_ _

__Sherlock looks pole-axed, and then he fists his hands into the lapels of John’s rumpled jacket, presses him against the nearest tree and kisses him like he’s oxygen and Sherlock is drowning._ _

__“Unbelievable,” Sherlock mutters against John’s lips. “How do you do it? You shock me stupid three times a week.”_ _

__John draws back a little. “In a good way?”_ _

__Sherlock looks at him, and John feels that toe-curling-free-falling sensation again, and he finally identifies it as attraction. “Never stop,” Sherlock says._ _

__John grins. “All right.”_ _

__

__*-*_ _

__Sunlight streams through the windows and wakes John slowly from a deep, dreamless sleep. He feels a bit like he's been run over by a lorry or a herd of overactive horses._ _

__But the discomfort fades somewhat when he turns and nuzzles into the warmth of Sherlock, who's curled up next to him, one arm thrown possessively over his waist, as if Sherlock was afraid John would run away from him in the night. Neither of them are wearing much of anything, they were both too exhausted to do more than strip off the outer layers of their clothing, so they're both in underpants and under-shirts and nothing else. It's.... well, interesting, Sherlock's long, lanky and yet graceful body so near, so much skin on skin. But it's not an urgent kind of interesting, nothing that needs attention right now._ _

__Sherlock is fast asleep, and John closes his eyes again, enjoying Sherlock's warmth against him, the quiet in the room, the sunlight warming his skin. He could use a day or six like this, after all the excitement of the last few weeks._ _

__But first, the bathroom. He carefully disentangles his limbs from Sherlock, then stretches a bit. When he turns his head, he looks directly into Sherlock's eyes, watching him warily._ _

__John smiles and reaches out to smooth the frown line away from Sherlock's forehead. “If you're not careful, your face will get stuck like this,” he mutters into the quiet space between them._ _

__Sherlock noticeably relaxes and smiles at him fondly. “I stopped believing that when I was three,” he says, nudging closer to John and pressing his lips to John's._ _

__John kisses back with an approving hum, and the interest that wasn't so very urgent earlier returns full force. He manoeuvres them so Sherlock's lying on top of him, and John lets his hands roam over the curves and angles of Sherlock's body, gasping as Sherlock stops kissing him to nuzzle down his neck. Involuntarily, he arches his back into Sherlock's touch, and that brings their groins into perfect alignment._ _

__Things go fuzzy after that, all heat and skin and lips, hands all over him, Sherlock's reverent whisper in his ear, and he doesn't know what's better, his own orgasm, or the way Sherlock shakes apart on top of him, panting his name into John's ear._ _

__Afterwards, they lie there, a sweaty heap of tangled limbs and disgusting clothing. John runs his hands under Sherlock's under-shirt, tracing idle patterns into his sweat-slicked skin._ _

__“This is new,” he muses quietly._ _

__Sherlock snorts. “Not really.”_ _

__John stills, and Sherlock notices, because he rolls off John and lies on his side, propping his head up on his arm to look down at John._ _

__John swallows at the intensity of Sherlock's gaze, the electric free-falling-sensation setting in the pit of his stomach. “You...” he doesn't know the end of that sentence, so he settles for, “How long?”_ _

__Sherlock shrugs. “In a way, since that first time we met when you’d watched me dissect a rabbit and I’d deduced you, and the next morning you just sat down next to me, like you _wanted_ to talk to me.”_ _

__“Of course I wanted to talk to you, you were the most interesting person I’d ever met,” John answers matter-of-factly. “Still are, actually.”_ _

__Sherlock smiles at him. “I knew then that you're... well, that you're...” Sherlock looks down at John's hand on his waist, where John is absently stroking his hipbone. “I knew that you're special, and spectacular, and that you're... for me. That we fit.”_ _

__John swallows, mouth suddenly dry. He nudges Sherlock, and he looks up to meet John's gaze, and there's that apprehension again, that hesitation. “I knew then, too, I think,” John says, and it's true. He remembers the first moment Sherlock looked at him with all that flattering attention, and he remembers how he felt truly seen for the first time in his life. “I just didn't know we'd be like this, too,” he adds, gesturing between them._ _

__Sherlock smiles. “I admit it only occurred to me that I might want this when I saw you kissing Sarah and wanted to murder her with my bare hands.”_ _

__John laughs, and Sherlock's smile widens. He rolls back on top of John and murmurs, “That's my favourite sound in the entire world,” he says and kisses the laugh from John's lips._ _

__John wants nothing more than to lose himself in the heady rush of Sherlock's kisses, but there's one thing he needs to know. He twines his fingers in Sherlock's hair and pulls his head back a little to look at him._ _

__“What?” Sherlock all but whines, trying to go back to kissing._ _

__John puts a finger over his lips. “You wanted to go home so badly,” he says, picking his words carefully. “And now that's gone. Because of me.”_ _

__Sherlock's smile fades. He grabs John's face with his hands and holds John still to look him straight in the eye. “You were right.”_ _

__“About what?” John asks, unsure whether Sherlock ever said that to him before._ _

__“You said that going home at any price wasn't worth it, and you were right,” Sherlock says, and smiles at John. “No regrets, John. Never.”_ _

__John smiles back. “Good. Now kiss me again.”_ _

__Sherlock grins, and complies._ _


	7. Epilogue

The cell is cold but clean, and the furniture is sparse but relatively new. There’s even a tiny barred window that lets one catch the occasional sunbeam. It’s not luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but he expected to be shot on sight, and he wonders why he wasn’t.

The door of his cell opens. A man walks in and sits down on the room’s only chair without saying a word. He’s lean, over six feet tall, dark hair and interestingly coloured eyes. He’s sharply but conservatively dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit in a dull brown. Everything about him is sharp, precise, and contained. 

He turns a smile on Sebastian that sends a chill through him down to his toes. “Mr. Moran, I was very surprised to learn of your capture.” His voice is as cool and precise as the rest of him, and he speaks with a quiet authority that tells Sebastian to be very afraid. He takes out a manila folder and flips it open on his lap. “Desertion in time of war, and that from a seasoned officer like you… I don’t think I have to explain the punishment to you. And however distinguished your service record, the fact of your capture would in and of itself not be enough to warrant my interest.”

The man looks down at the file in his lap. “You were apprehended about five miles from Devonshire, near a place called Musgrave Manor. Do you know what is special about Musgrave Manor?”

Sebastian shakes his head. 

“On July 23rd 1941, at around 7:45 am, two boys walked out of Musgrave Manor. Neither of them has been seen since.” The man leans forward. “One of these boys is my son. If you know anything, I repeat _anything_ about his disappearance, tell me now, and I will personally see to it that your sentence will be very lenient indeed.”

Sebastian smiles. “Well then we can both count ourselves lucky. Because I know _everything_ about your son’s disappearance. And what’s more, I know how to get him back.”


End file.
